At eight o’clock the same evening, Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Hayley were eating a hasty meal in the Trellis House. James Hayley had been compelled to stay on till the last train back to town, for on him the untoward events of the day had entailed a good deal of trouble. He had had to put off his cousin’s tenants, find lodgings for their two servants, and arrange quarters for the policeman who, pending inquiries, was guarding the contents of Anna’s bedroom.

A charwoman had been found with the help of Mrs. Haworth. But when this woman had been asked—her name was Bent, and she was a verger’s wife—to provide a little supper for two gentlemen, she had demurred, and said it was impossible. Then, at last, she had volunteered to cook two chops and boil some potatoes. But she had explained that nothing further must be expected of her; she was not used to waiting at table.

The two young men were thus looking after themselves in the pretty dining-room. Mr. Reynolds, who was not as particular as his companion, and who, as a matter of fact, had had no luncheon, thought the chop quite decent. In fact, he was heartily enjoying his supper, for he was very hungry.

“I daresay all you say concerning Anna Bauer’s powers of cooking, of saving, of mending, and of cleaning, are quite true!” he exclaimed, with a laugh. “But believe me, Mr. Hayley, she’s a wicked old woman! Of course I shall know a great deal more about her to-morrow morning. But I’ve already been able to gather a good deal to-day. There’s been a regular nest of spies in this town, with antennÆ stretching out over the whole of this part of the southwest coast. Would you be surprised to learn that your cousin’s good old Anna has a married daughter in the business—a daughter married to an Englishman?”

“You don’t mean George Pollit?” asked James Hayley eagerly.

“Yes—that’s the man’s name! Why, d’you know him?”

“I should think I do! I helped to get him out of a scrape last year. He’s a regular rascal.”

“Aye, that he is indeed. He’s acted as post office to this man Hegner. It’s he, the fellow they call Alfred Head, the Dean’s friend, the city councillor, who has been the master spy.” Again he laughed, this time rather unkindly. “I think we’ve got the threads of it all in our hands by now. You see, we found this man Pollit’s address among the very few papers which were discovered at that Spaniard’s place near Southampton. A sharp fellow went to Pollit’s shop, and the man didn’t put up any fight at all. They’re fools to employ that particular Cockney type. I suppose they chose him because his wife is German——”

There came a loud ring at the front door, and James Hayley jumped up. “I’d better see what that is,” he said. “The woman we’ve got here is such a fool!”

He went out into the hall, and found Rose Blake.

“We heard about Anna just after we got to London,” she said breathlessly. “A man in the train mentioned it to Jervis quite casually, while speaking of mother’s wedding. So we came back at once to hear what had really happened and to see if we could do anything. Oh, James, what a dreadful thing! Of course she’s innocent—it’s absurd to think anything else. Where is she? Can I go and see her now, at once? She must be in a dreadful state. I do feel so miserable about her!”

“You’d better come in here,” he said quietly. It was odd what a sharp little stab at the heart it gave him to see Rose looking so like herself—so like the girl he had hoped in time to make his wife. And yet so different too—so much softer, sweeter, and with a new radiance in her face.

He asked sharply, “By the way, where’s your husband?”

“He’s with the Robeys. I preferred to come here alone.”

She followed him into the dining-room.

“This is Mr. Reynolds,—Mr. Reynolds, my cousin Mrs. Blake!” He waited uncomfortably, impatiently, while they shook hands, and then: “I’m afraid you’re going to have a shock——” he exclaimed, and, suddenly softening, looked at her with a good deal of concern in his face. “There’s very little doubt, Rose, that Anna Bauer is guilty.”

“I’m sure she’s not,” said Rose stoutly. She looked across at the stranger. “You must forgive me for speaking like this,” she said, “but you see old Anna was my nurse, and I really do know her very well.”

As she glanced from the one grave face to the other, her own shadowed. “Is it very very serious?” she asked, with a catch in her clear voice.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

“Oh, James, do try and get leave for me to see her to-night—even for only a moment.”

She turned to the other man; somehow she felt that she had a better chance there. “I have been in great trouble lately,” she said, in a low tone, “and but for Anna Bauer I don’t know how I should have got through it. That is why I feel I must go to her now in her trouble.”

“We’ll see what can be done,” said Mr. Reynolds kindly. “It may be easier to arrange for you to see her to-night than it would be to-morrow, after she has been charged.”

When they reached the Market Place they saw that there were a good many idlers still standing about near the steps leading up to the now closed door of the Council House.

“You had better wait down here while I go and see about it,” said James Hayley quickly. He did not like the thought of Rose standing among the sort of people who were lingering, like noisome flies round a honey-pot, under the great portico.

And when he had left them standing together in the great space under the stars, Rose turned to the stranger with whom she somehow felt in closer sympathy than with her own cousin.

“What makes you think our old servant was a——” she broke off. She could not bear to use the word “spy.”

“I’ll tell you,” he said slowly, “what has convinced me. But keep this for the present to yourself, Mrs. Blake, for I have said nothing of it to Mr. Hayley. Quite at the beginning of the War, it was arranged that all telegrams addressed to the Continent should be sent to the head telegraph office in London for examination. Now within the first ten days one hundred and four messages, sent, I should add, to a hundred and four different addresses, were worded as follows——” He waited a moment. “Are you following what I say, Mrs. Blake?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “I think I understand. You are telling me about some telegrams—a great many telegrams——”

But she was asking herself how this complicated story could be connected with Anna Bauer.

“Well, I repeat that a hundred and four telegrams were worded almost exactly alike: ’Father can come back on about 14th. Boutet is expecting him.’”

Rose looked up at him. “Yes?” she said hesitatingly. She was completely at a loss.

“Well, your old German servant, Mrs. Blake, sent one of these telegrams on Monday, August 10th. She explained that a stranger she met in the street had asked her to send it off. She was, it seems, kept under observation for a little while, after her connection with this telegram had been discovered, but in all the circumstances, the fact she was in your mother’s service, and so on, she was given the benefit of the doubt.”

“But—but I don’t understand even now?” said Rose slowly.

“I’ll explain. All these messages were from German agents in this country, who wished to tell their employers about the secret despatch of our Expeditionary Force. ‘Boutet’ meant Boulogne. Of course we have no clue at all as to how your old servant got the information.”

Rose suddenly remembered the day when Major Guthrie had come to say good-bye. A confused feeling of horror, of pity, and of vicarious shame swept over her. For the first time in her young life she was glad of the darkness which hid her face from her companion.

The thought of seeing Anna now filled her with repugnance and shrinking pain. “I—I understand what you mean,” she said slowly.

“You must remember that she is a German. She probably regards herself in the light of a heroine!”

The minutes dragged by, and it seemed to Mr. Reynolds that they had been waiting there at least half an hour, when at last he saw with relief the tall slim figure emerge through the great door of the Council House. Very deliberately James Hayley walked down the stone steps, and came towards them. When he reached the place where the other two were standing, waiting for him, he looked round as if to make sure that there was no one within earshot.

“Rose,” he said huskily—and he also was consciously glad of the darkness, for he had just gone through what had been, to one of his highly civilised and fastidious temperament, a most trying ordeal—“Rose, I’m sorry to bring you bad news. Anna Bauer is dead. The poor old woman has hanged herself. As a matter of fact, it was I—I and the inspector of police—who found her. We managed to get a doctor in through one of the side entrances—but it was of no use.”

Rose said no word. She stood quite still, overwhelmed, bewildered with the horror, and, to her, the pain, of the thing she had just heard.

And then, suddenly, there fell, shaft-like, athwart the still, dark air, the sound of muffled thuds, falling quickly in rhythmical sequence, on the brick-paved space which melted away into the darkness to their left.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Mr. Reynolds. His nerves also were shaken by the news which he had just heard; but even as he spoke he saw that the sound which seemed so strange, so—so sinister, was caused by a tall figure only now coming out of the shadows away across the Market Place. What puzzled Mr. Reynolds was the man’s very peculiar gait. He seemed, if one can use such a contradiction in terms, to be at once crawling and swinging along.

“It’s my husband!”

Rose Blake raised her head. A wavering gleam of light fell on her pale, tear-stained face, and showed it suddenly as if illumined, glowing from within: “He’s never been so far by himself before—I must go to him!”

She began walking swiftly—almost running—to meet that strangely slow yet leaping figure, which was becoming more and more clearly defined among the deeply shaded gas lamps which stood at wide intervals in the great space round them.

Then, all at once, they heard the eager, homing cry, “Rose?” and the answering cry, “Jervis?” and the two figures seemed to become merged till they formed one, together.