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THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT


a
.


THE MAN WITH
THE CLUB FOOT
BY
VALENTINE WILLIAMS
AUTHOR OF
THE YELLOW STREAK, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
1595498 A
ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
R 1932 L
Printed in the United States of America
Second Printing, December, 2018
Third Printing, February, 1919
Published September, 1918


CONTENTS
FORM
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM . : 1
THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE
III. A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT . . . 18
IV. DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR . . 28
THE LADY OF THE VOS'IN'T TUINTJE .
VI. I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN AND LEAVE
A LAME GENTLEMAN ON THE PLAT-
FORM . . . . .
VII. IN WHICH A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A
CHARM . . . . .
VIII. I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT AND MEET HIS
EMPLOYER.
IX. I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
WHO LEADS ME TO A DELIGHTFUL
SURPRISE . . . . . 118
X. A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT . 137
XI. MISS MABY PENDERGAST RISKS HER
REPUTATION . . . .
IXO 85


XII. · HIS EXCELLENCY THE GENERAL IS
WORRIED . . . . .
XII. I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT. .
XIV. CLUBFOOT COMES TO HASSE's. in
XV. THE WAITER AT THE CAFÉ REGINA
XVI. A HAND CLASP BY THE RHINE .
XVII. FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE.
XVIII. I GO ON WITH THE STORY . .
XIX. WE HAVE A RECKONING WITH CLUB-
FOOT • • • • :•
XX. CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE . ja :
XXI. RED TABS EXPLAINS
172
191
206
223
235
253
264
279
mi
11
2


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
CHAPTER I
I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM
T HE reception clerk looked up from the
hotel register and shook his head firmly.
“Very sorry, saire,” he said, “not a
bed in ze house." And he closed the book with
a snap.
Outside the rain came down heavens hard.
Every one who came into the brightly lit hotel
vestibule entered with a gush of water. I felt
I would rather die than face the wind-swept
streets of Rotterdam again.
I turned once more to the clerk who was now
busy at the key-rack.
“Haven't you really a corner? I wouldn't
mind where it was, as it is only for the night.
Come now. ...".
“Very sorry, saire. We have two gentlemen
sleeping in ze bathrooms already. If you had
reserved ..." And he shrugged his shoulders


2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
and bent towards a visitor who was demanding
his key.
I turned away with rage in my heart. What
a cursed fool I had been not to wire from
Groningen! I had fully intended to, but the
extraordinary conversation I had had with
Dicky Allerton had put everything else out of
my head. At every hotel I had tried it had
been the same story-Cooman's, the Maas, the
Grand, all were full even to the bathrooms.
If I had only wired....
As I passed out into the porch I bethought
myself of the porter. A hotel porter had helped
me out of a similar plight in Breslau once years
ago. This porter, with his red drink-sodden
face and tarnished gold braid, did not promise
well, so far as a recommendation for a lodging
for the night was concerned. Still ....
I suppose it was my mind dwelling on my
experience at Breslau that made me address
the man in German. When one has been familiar
with a foreign tongue from one's boyhood, it
requires but a very slight mental impulse to
drop into it. From sạch slight beginnings do
great enterprises spring. If I had known the
immense ramification of adventure that was to
spread its roots from that simple question, I
verily believe my heart would have failed me
and I would have run forth into the night and


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM
3
the rain and roamed the streets till morning.
Well, I found myself asking the man in Ger-
man if he knew where I could get a room for the
night.
He shot a quick glance at me from under his
reddened eyelids.
"The gentleman would doubtless like a
German house?” he queried.
You may hardly credit it, but my interview
with Dicky Allerton that afternoon had simply
driven the war out of my mind. When one
has lived much among foreign peoples, one's
mentality slips automatically into their skin.
I was now thinking in German-at least so it
seems to me when I look back upon that night
-and I answered without reflecting:
“I don't care where it is as long as I can get
somewhere to sleep out of this infernal rain!”
“The gentleman can have a good, clean bed
at the Hotel Sixt in the little street they call
the Vos in't Tuintje, on the canal behind the
Bourse. The proprietress is a good German,
jawohl. ... Frau Anna Schratt her name is.
The gentleman need only say he comes from
Franz at the Bopparder Hof.”
I gave the man a gulden and bade him get
me a cab.
It was still pouring. As we rattled away
over the glistening cobble-stones, my mind


4
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
traveled back over the startling events of the
day. My talk with old Dicky had given me
such a mental jar that I found it at first well-
nigh impossible to concentrate my thoughts.
That's the worst of shell-shock. You think you
are cured, you feel fit and well, and then sud-
denly the machinery of your mind checks and
halts and creaks. Ever since I had left hospital
convalescent after being wounded on the Somme
(“gunshot wound in head and cerebral concus-
sion” the doctors called it) I had trained my-
self, whenever my brain was en panne, to go
back to the beginning of things and work slowly
up to the present by methodical stages.
Let's see then. ... I was “boarded” at
Millbank and got three months' leave: then
I did a month in the Littlejohns' bungalow in
Cornwall: there I got the letter from Dicky
Allerton, who, before the war, had been in
partnership with my brother Francis in the
motor business at Coventry. Dicky had been
with the Naval Division at Antwerp and was
interned with the rest of the crowd when they
crossed the Dutch frontier in those disastrous
days of October, 1914.
Dicky wrote from Groningen, just a line.
Now that I was on leave, if I were fit to travel,
would I come to Groningen and see him? “I
have had a curious communication which seems


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM 5
to have to do with poor Francis,” he added.
That was all.
My brain was still halting, so I turned to
Francis. Here again I had to go back. Francis,
rejected on all sides for active service owing to
what he scornfully used to call “the shirkers'
ailment, varicose veins," had flatly declined to
carry on with his motor business after Dicky
had joined up, although their firm was doing
government work. Finally, he had vanished
into the maw of the War Office and all I knew
was that he was something on the Intelli-
gence.” More than this not even he would tell
me, and when he finally disappeared from Lon-
don, just about the time that I was popping the
parapet with my battalion at Neuve Chapelle,
he left me his London chambers as his only
address for letters.
Ah! now it was all coming back . . . Fran-
cis' infrequent letters to me about nothing at
all, then his will, forwarded to me for safe
keeping when I was home on leave last Christ-
mas, and after that, silence. Not another let-
ter, not a word about him, not a shred of infor-
mation. He had utterly vanished.
I remembered my frantic inquiries, my vain
visits to the War Office, my perplexity at the
imperturbable silence of the various officials I
importuned for news of my poor brother. Then


6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
there was that lunch at the Bath Club with
Sonny Martin of the Heavies and a friend of
his, some kind of staff captain in red tabs. I
don't think I heard his name, but I know he
was at the War Office, and presently over our
cigars and coffee I laid before him the mysteri-
ous facts about my brother's case.
,"Perhaps you knew Francis?” I said in con-
clusion. “Yes," he replied, “I know him well.”
“Know him," I repeated, “know him ...
then ... then you think ... you have rea-
son to believe he is still alive...?"
Red Tabs cocked his eye at the gilded cornice
of the ceiling and blew a ring from his cigar.
But he said nothing.
I persisted with my questions but it was of
no avail. Red Tabs only laughed and said: “I
know nothing at all except that your brother
is a most delightful fellow with all your own
love of getting his own way.”
Then Sonny Martin, who is the perfection of
tact and diplomacy-probably on that account
an anecdote about a man who was rating the
waiter at an adjoining table, and I held my
peace. But as Red Tabs rose to go, a little
later, he held my hand for a minute in his and
with that curious look of his, said slowly and
with meaning:


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM 7
“When a nation is at war, officers on active
service must occasionally disappear, sometimes
in their country's interest, sometimes in their
own."
He emphasized the words “on active serve ·
ice.''
In a flash my eyes were opened. How blind
I had been! Francis was in Germany.


CHAPTER I
THE CIPHEB WITH THE INVOICE
ED TABS’ sphinx-like declaration was
no riddle to me. I knew at once that
Francis must be on secret service in
the enemy's country and that country Ger-
many. My brother's extraordinary knowledge
of the Germans, their customs, life and dialects,
rendered him ideally suitable for any such
perilous mission. Francis always had an extra-
ordinary talent for languages: he seemed to
acquire them all without any mental effort,
but in German he was supreme. During the
year that he and I spent at Consistorial-Rat von
Mayburg's house at Bonn, he rapidly outdis-
tanced me, and though, at the end of our time,
I could speak German like a German, Francis
was able, in addition, to speak Bonn and Co-
logne patois like a native of those ancient cities
-ay and he could drill a squad of recruits in


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE
9
their own language like the smartest Leutnant
ever fledged from Gross-Lichterfelde.
He never had any difficulty in passing him-
self off as a German. Well I remember his de-
light when he was claimed as a fellow Rhein-
lander by a German officer we met, one summer
before the war, combining golf with a little use-
ful espionage at Cromer.
I don't think Francis had any ulterior motive
in his study of German. He simply found he
had this imitative faculty: philology had
always interested him: so, even after he had
gone into the motor trade, he used to amuse
himself on business trips to Germany by acquir-
ing new dialects.
His German imitations were extraordinarily
funny. One of his "star turns” was a noisy
sitting of the Reichstag with speeches by Prince
Bülow and August Bebel and “interruptions”;
another, a patriotic oration by an old Prussian
General at a Kaiser's Birthday dinner. Francis
had a marvellous faculty not only of seeming
German, but even of almost looking like a Ger-
man, so absolutely was he able to slip into the
skin of the part.
Yet never in my wildest moments had I
dreamt that he would try and get into Germany
in war-time, into that land where every citizen
is catalogued and pigeon-holed from the cradle,


10
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
But Red Tabs' oracular utterance had made
everything clear to me. Why, a mission to
Germany would be the very thing that Francis
would give his eyes to be allowed to attempt!
Francis with his utter disregard of danger, his
love of taking risks, his impish delight in tak-
ing a rise out of the stodgy Hun ... why, if
there were Englishmen brave enough to take
chances of that kind, Francis would be the first
to volunteer.
Yes, if Francis were on a mission anywhere
it would be to Germany. But what prospect
had he of ever returning—with the frontiers
closed and ingress and egress practically barred
even to pro-German neutrals? Many a night
in the trenches I had a mental vision of Fran-
cis, so debonair and so fearless, facing a firing-
squad of Prussian privates.
From the day of the luncheon at the Bath
Club to this very afternoon I had had no fur-
ther inkling of my brother's whereabouts or
fate. The authorities at home professed ignor-
ance, as I knew, in duty bound, they would, and
I had nothing to hang any theory on to until
Dicky Allerton's letter came. Ashcroft at the
F.O. fixed up my passports for me and I lost
no time in exchanging the white gulls and red
cliffs of Cornwall for the windmills and trim
canals of Holland.


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE 11
II
And now in my breast pocket lay, written on
a small piece of cheap foreign note-paper, the
tidings I had come to Groningen to seek. Yet
so trivial, so nonsensical, so baffling was the
message that I already felt my trip to Holland
to have been a fruitless errand.
I found Dicky fat and bursting with health
in his quarters at the internment camp. He
only knew that Francis had disappeared. When
I told him of my meeting with Red Tabs at the
Bath Club, of the latter's words to me at part-
ing and of my own conviction in the matter he
whistled, then looked grave.
He went straight to the point in his bluff,
direct way.
· "I am going to tell you a story first, Des-
mond,” he said to me, “then I'll show you a
piece of paper. Whether the two together fit
in with your theory as to poor Francis' disap-.
pearance will be for you to judge. Until now
I must confess—I had felt inclined to dismiss
the only reference this document appears to
make to your brother as a mere coincidence in
names, but what you have told me makes things
interesting-by Jove, it does, though. Well,
here's the yarn first of all!
"Your brother and I have had dealings in
the past with a Dutchman in the motor business


12. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
at Nymwegen, name of van Urutius. He has
often been over to see us at Coventry in the
old days and Francis has stayed with him at
Nymwegen once or twice on his way back from
Germany-Nymwegen, you know, is close to
the German frontier. Old Urutius has been
very decent to me since I have been in gaol
here and has been over several times, generally
with a box or two of those nice Dutch cigars."
"Dicky," I broke in on him, "get on with the
story. What the devil's all this got to do with
Francis? The document. ..."
“Steady, my boy!" was the imperturbable
reply, “let me spin my yarn my own way. I'm
coming to the piece of paper. ...
"Well, then, old Urutius came to see me ten
days ago. All I knew about Francis I had told
him, namely, that Francis had entered the army
and was missing. It was no busines of the old
Mynheer if Francis was in the Intelligence, so
I didn't tell him that. Van U. is a staunch
friend of the English, but you know the saying
that if a man doesn't know he can't split.
"My old Dutch pal, then, turned up here ten
days ago. He was bubbling over with excite-
ment. “Mr. Allerton,' he says, 'I haf had a
writing, a most mysterious writing a writing,
I t’ink, from Francis Okewood.'
“I sat tight. If there were any revelations


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE
13
coming they were going to be Dutch, not Brit-
ish. On that I was resolved.
"'I haf received,' the old Dutchman went
on, 'from Gairemany a parcel of metal shields,
plates—what you call 'em—of tin, hein? What
I haf to advertise my business. They arrife
las' week-I open the parcel myself and on the
top is the envelope with the invoice.'
“Mynheer paused: he has a good sense of the
dramatic.
“Well,' I said, 'did it bite you or say "Gott
strafe England,” or what?'
“Van Urutius ignored my flippancy and re-
sumed. 'I open the envelope and there in
the invoice I find this writing—here!'
“And here,” said Dicky, diving into his
pocket, “is 'the writing'!"
And he thrust into my eagerly outstretched
hand a very thin half-sheet of foreign note-
paper, of that kind of cheap glazed note-paper
you get in cafés on the Continent when you ask
for writing materials..
Three lines of German, written in fluent Ger-
man characters in purple ink beneath the name
and address of Mynheer van Urutius , ..
that was all.
My heart sank with disappointment and
wretchedness as I read the inscription.


14. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Here is the document:
Heern Willem van Urutius,
Automobilgeschäft,
Nymwegen.
Alexander-Straat 81 bis.
Berlin, iten Juli, 16.
O Eichenholz! O Eichenholz,
Wie leer sind deine Blätter.
Wie Achiles in dem Zelte.
Wo zweie sich zanken
Erfreut sich der Dritte.
(Translation.)
Mr. Willem van Urutius,
Automobile Agent,
Nymwegen.
81 bis Alexander-Straat.
Berlin, ist July, 16.
O Oak-tree! O Oak-tree,
How empty are thy leaves.
Like Achiles in the tent.
When two people fall out
The third party rejoices.


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE 15
I stared at this nonsensical document in
silence. My thoughts were almost too bitter
for words.
At last I spoke.
“What’s all this rigmarole got to do with
Francis, Dicky?" I asked, vainly trying to
suppress the bitterness in my voice. "This
looks like a list of copybook maxims for your
Dutch friend's advertisement cards. ..."
But I returned to the study of the piece of
paper.
“Not so fast, old bird,” Dicky replied coolly,
"let me finish my story. Old Stick-in-the-mud
is a lot shrewder than we think.
"When I read the writing,' he told me, 'I
think he is all robbish, but then I ask myself,
who shall put robbish in my invoices? And
then I read the writing again and once again
and then I see he is a message.'
“Stop, Dicky!" I cried, “of course, what an
ass I am! Why Eichenholz ..."
“Exactly,” returned Dicky, “as the old
Mynheer was the first to see, Eichenholz trans-
lated into English is ‘Oak-tree' or 'Oak-wood'
-in other words, Francis.”.
“Then, Dicky ..." I interrupted.
“Just a minute,” said Dicky, putting up his
hand. “I confess I thought, on first seeing this
message or whatever it is, that there must be


16
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
simply a coincidence of name and that some-
body's idle scribbling had found its way into
old van U.'s invoice. But now that you have
told me that Francis may have actually got into
Germany, then, I must say, it looks as if this
might be an attempt of his to communicate
with home.”
,“Where did the Dutchman's packet of stuff
come from?” I asked.
"From the Berlin Metal Works in Steglitz, a
suburb of Berlin: he has dealt with them for
years."
“But then what does all the rest of it mean
... all this about Achilles and the rest?”
“Ah, Desmond!” was Dicky's reply, “that's
where you've got not only me, but also Myn-
heer van Urutius.”
"O oakwood! O oakwood, how empty are
thy leaves!' ... That sounds like a taunt,
don't you think, Dicky?” said I.
“Or a confession of failure from Francis
... to let us know that he has done nothing,
adding that he is accordingly sulking 'like Ach-
illes in his tent.'",
"But, see here, Richard Allerton," I said,
“Francis would never spell “Achilles' with one
'l'... now, would he?”
“By Jove!” said Dicky, looking at the paper
again, "nobody would but a very uneducated


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE 17
person. I know nothing about German, but tell
me, is that the hand of an educated German?
Is it Francis' handwriting?”
"Certainly, it is an educated hand," I re-
plied, “but I'm dashed if I can say whether it
is Francis' German handwriting: it can scarce-
ly be because, as I have already remarked, he
spells ‘Achilles' with one ‘l.""
Then the fog came down over us again. We
sat helplessly and gazed at the fateful paper.
"There's only one thing for it, Dicky,” I said
finally, “I'll take the blooming thing back to
London with me and hand it over to the Intelli-
gence. After all, Francis may have a code with
them. Possibly they will see light where we
grope in darkness.”
“Desmond,” said Dicky, giving me his hand,
“that's the most sensible suggestion you've
made yet. Go home and good luck to you. But
promise me you'll come back here and tell me if
that piece of paper brings the news that dear
old Francis is alive.”
So I left Dicky but I did not go home. I was
not destined to see my home for many a weary
week.
as


CHAPTER III
Á VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
VOLLEY of invective from the box of
the cab—bad language in Dutch is fear-
fully effective aroused me from my
musings. The cab, a small, uncomfortable box
with a musty smell, stopped with a jerk that
flung me forward. From the outer darkness
furious altercation resounded above the plash-
ing of the rain. I peered through the streaming
glass of the windows but could distinguish no-
thing save the yellow blur of a lamp. Then a
vehicle of some kind seemed to move away in
front of us, for I heard the grating of wheels
against the curb, and my cab drew up to the
pavement.
On alighting, I found myself in a narrow,
dark street with high houses on either side. A
grimy lamp with the word “Hôtel” in half-ob-
literated characters painted on it hung above
my head, announcing that I had arrived at my
18


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
destination. As I paid off the cabman another
cab passed. It was apparently the one with
which my Jehu had had words, for he turned
round and shouted abuse into the night.
My cabman departed, leaving me with my
bag on the pavement at my feet, gazing at a
narrow dirty door, the upper half of which was
filled in with frosted glass. I was at last awake
to the fact that I, an Englishman, was going
to spend the night in a German hotel to which
I had been specially recommended by a German
porter on the understanding that I was a
German. I knew that, according to the Dutch
neutrality regulations, my passport would have
to be handed in for inspection by the police
and that therefore I could not pass myself off
as a German.
“Bah!" I said to give myself courage, “this
is a free country, a neutral country. They may
be offensive, they may overcharge you, in a
Hun hotel, but they can't eat you. Besides,
any bed on a night like this!” and I pushed
open the door.
Within, the hotel proved to be rather better
than its uninviting exterior promised. There
was a small vestibule with a little glass cage of
an office on one side and beyond it an old-fash-
ioned flight of stairs, with a glass knob on the
post at the foot, winding to the upper stories.


20 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
At the sound of my footsteps on the mosaic
flooring, a waiter emerged from a little cubby-
hole under the stairs. He had a blue apron girt
about his waist, but otherwise he wore the short
coat and the dicky and white tie of the Conti-
nental hotel waiter. His hands were grimy
with black marks and so was his apron. He
had apparently been cleaning boots.
He was a big, fat, blonde man with narrow,
cruel little eyes. His hair was cut so short that
his head appeared to be shaven. He advanced
quickly towards me and asked me in German
in a truculent voice what I wanted.
I replied in the same language, I wanted a
room.
He shot a glance at me through his little slits
of eyes on hearing my good Bonn accent, but
his manner did not change.
"The hotel is full. The gentleman cannot
have a bed here. The proprietress is out at
present. I regret. ..." He spat this all out
in the offhand insolent manner of the Prussian
official.
“It was Franz, of the Bopparder Hof, who
recommended me to come here,” I said. I was
not going out again into the rain for a whole
army of Prussian waiters.
“He told me that Frau Schratt would make
me very comfortable," I added.


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT
31
The waiter's manner changed at once.
“So, so," he said-quite genially this time
“it was Franz who sent the gentleman to us.
He is a good friend of the house, is Franz. Ja,
Frau Schratt is unfortunately out just now, but
as soon as the lady returns I will inform her
you are here. In the meantime, I will give the
gentleman a room.”
He handed me a candlestick and a key.
“So,” he grunted, “No. 31, the third floor.”
A clock rang out the hour somewhere in the
distance.
“Ten o'clock already,” he said. “The gentle-
man's papers can wait till to-morrow, it is so
late. Or perhaps the gentleman will give them
to the proprietress. She must come any mo-
ment."
As I mounted the winding staircase I heard
him murmur again:
“So, so, Franz sent him here! Ach, der
Franz!”
As soon as I had passed out of sight of the
lighted hall I found myself in complete dark-
ness. On each landing a jet of gas, turned down
low, flung a dim and flickering light a few yards
around. On the third floor I was able to dis-
tinguish by the gas rays a small plaque fastened
to the wall inscribed with an arrow pointing to
the right above the figures: 46-30.


22 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
I stopped to strike a match to light my candle.
The whole hotel seemed wrapped in silence, the
only sound the rushing of water in the gutters
without. Then from the darkness of the narrow
corridor that stretched out in front of me, I
heard the rattle of a key in a lock.
I advanced down the corridor, the pale glim-
mer of my candle showing me as I passed a
succession of yellow doors, each bearing a white
porcelain plate inscribed with a number in
black. No. 46 was the first room on the right
counting from the landing; the even numbers
were on the right, the odd on the left: there-
fore I reckoned on finding my room the last on
the left at the end of the corridor.
The corridor presently touk a sharp turn. 'As
I came round the bend I heard again the sound
of a key and then the rattling of a door knob,
but the corridor bending again, I could not see
the author of the noise until I had turned the
corner.
I ran right into a man fumbling at a door on
the left-hand side of the passage, the last door
but one. A mirror at the end of the corridor
caught and threw back the reflection of my
candle.
The man looked up as I approached. He was
wearing a soft black felt hat and a black over-
coat and on his arm hung an umbrella stream-


24. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
"You must have arrived just before I did,"
I said, remembering the cab that had driven
away from the hotel as I drove up.
“That is so," he answered, pushing open his
door as he spoke. He disappeared into the
darkness of the room and suddenly the door
shut with a slam that re-echoed through the
house.
As I had calculated, my room was next door
to his, the end room of the corridor. It smelt
horribly close and musty and the first thing I
did was to stride across to the windows and
fling them back wide.
I found myself looking across a dark and
narrow canal, on whose stagnant water loomed
large the black shapes of great barges, into the
windows of gaunt and weather-stained houses
over the way. Not a light shone in any window.
Away in the distance the same clock as I had
heard before struck the quarter-a single, clear-
chime.
It was the regular bedroom of the maison
meublée-worn carpet, discolored and dingy
wall-paper, faded red curtains and mahogany
bedstead with a vast édredon, like a giant pin-
cushion. My candle, guttering wildly in the
unaccustomed breeze blowing dankly through
the chamber, was the sole illuminant. There
was neither gas nor electric light laid on.


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 25
The house had relapsed into quiet. The bed-
room had an evil look and this, combined with
the dank air from the canal, gave my thoughts
a sombre tinge.
“Well," I said to myself, “you're a nice kind
of ass! Here you are, a British officer, posing
as a brother Hun in a cut-throat Hun hotel,
with a waiter who looks like the official Prussian
executioner. What's going to happen to you,
young feller my lad, when Madame comes along
and finds you have a British passport? A very
pretty kettle of fish, I must say!
"And suppose Madame takes it into her head
to toddle along up here to-night and calls your
bluff and summons the gentle Hans or Fritz or
whatever that ruffianly waiter's name is to
come upstairs and settle your hash! What
sort of a fight are you going to put up in that
narrow corridor out there with a Hun next door
and probably on every side of you, and no exit
this end? You don't know a living soul in
Rotterdam and no one will be a penny the wiser
if you vanish off the face of the earth ... at
any rate no one on this side of the water."
Starting to undress, I noticed a little door on
the left-hand side of the bed. I found it opened
into a small cabinet de toilette, a narrow slip of
a room with a wash-hand stand and a very
dirty window covered with yellow paper. I


26 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
pulled open this window with great difficulty-
it cannot have been opened for years—and
found it gave on to a very small and deep in-
terior court, just an air shaft round which the
house was built. At the bottom was a tiny
paved court not more than five foot square, en-
tirely isolated save on one side where there was
a basement window with a flight of steps lead-
ing down from the court through an iron grat-
ing. From this window a faint yellow streak
of light was visible. The air was damp and
chill and horrid odors of a dirty kitchen were
wafted up the shaft. So I closed the window
and set about turning in.
I took off my coat and waistcoat, then be-
thought me of the mysterious document I had
received from Dicky. Once more I looked at
those enigmatical words:
0 Oak-wood! 0 Oak-wood (for that much
was clear),
How empty are thy leaves.
Like Achiles (with one “l”) in the tent.
When two people fall out
The third party rejoices.
What did it all mean? Had Francis fallen
out with some confederate who, having had his
revenge by denouncing my brother, now took
this extraordinary step to announce his victim's
fate to the latter's friends? "Like Achilles in


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 27
the tent!” Why not "in his tent"? Sure-
ly ...
A curious choking noise, the sound of a
strangled cough, suddenly broke the profound
silence of the house. My heart seemed to stop
for a moment. I hardly dared raise my eyes
from the paper which I was conning, leaning
over the table in my shirt and trousers.
The noise continued, a hideous, deep-throated
gurgling. Then I heard a faint foot-fall in the
corridor without.
I raised my eyes to the door.
Someone or something was scratching the
panels, furiously, frantically.
The door-knob was rattled loudly. The noise
broke in raucously upon that horrid gurgling
sound without. It snapped the spell that bound
me.
I moved resolutely towards the door. Even
as I stepped forward the gurgling resolved it-
self into a strangled cry.
“Ach! ich sterbe” were the words I heard.
Then the door burst open with a crash, there
was a swooping rush of wind and rain through
the room, the curtains flapped madly from the
windows.
The candle flared up wildly.
Then it went out.
Something fell heavily into the room.


CHAPTER IV
DESTINY KNOOKS AT THE DOOR
HERE are two things at least that mod-
ern warfare teaches you, one is to keep
cool in an emergency, the other is not
to be afraid of a corpse. Therefore I was
scarcely surprised to find myself standing there
in the dark calmly reviewing the extraordinary
situation in which I now found myself. That's
the curious thing about shell-shock: after it a
motor back-firing or a tire bursting will reduce
a man to tears, but in face of danger he will
probably find himself in full possession of his
wits as long as there is no sudden and violent
noise connected with it.
Brief as the sounds without had been, I was
able on reflection to identify that gasping
gurgle, that rapid patter of the hands. Anyone
who has seen a man die quickly knows them.
Accordingly I surmised that somebody had
come to my door at the point of death.
28


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR
29
Then I thought of the man next door, his
painful breathlessness, his blueish lips, when I
found him wrestling with his key, and I guessed
who was my nocturnal visitor lying prone in
the dark at my feet.
Shielding the candle with my hand I re-
kindled it. Then I grappled with the flapping
curtains and got the windows shut. Then only
did I raise my candle until its beams shone
down upon the silent figure lying across the
threshold of the room.
It was the man from No. 33. He was quite
dead. His face was livid and distorted, his
eyes glassy between the half-closed lids, while
his fingers, still stiffly clutching, showed paint
and varnish and dust beneath the nails where
he had pawed door and carpet in his death.
agony.
One did not need to be a doctor to see that a
heart attack had swiftly and suddenly struck
him down.
Now that I knew the worst I acted with de-
cision. I dragged the body by the shoulders
into the room until it lay in the center of the
carpet. Then I locked the door.
The foreboding of evil that had cast its black
shadow over my thoughts from the moment I
crossed the threshold of this sinister hotel came
over me strongly again. Indeed, my position


30 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
was, to say the least, scarcely enviable. Here
was I, a British officer with British papers of
identity, about to be discovered in a German
hotel, into which I had introduced myself under
false pretences, at dead of night alone with the
corpse of a German or Austrian (for such the
dead man apparently was)!
It was undoubtedly a most awkward fix.
I listened.
Everything in the hotel was silent as the
grave.
I turned from my gloomy forebodings to look
again at the stranger. In his crisp black hair
and slightly protuberant cheek-bones I traced
again the hint of Jewish ancestry I had re-
marked before. Now that the man's eyes-his
big, thoughtful eyes that had stared at me out
of the darkness of the corridor—were closed, he
looked far less foreign than before: in fact he
might almost have passed as an Englishman.
He was a young man-about my own age, I
judged—(I shall be twenty-eight next birthday)
and about my own height, which is five feet ten.
There was something about his appearance and.
build that struck a chord very faintly in my
memory.
Had I seen the fellow before
I remembered now that I had noticed some-
thing oddly familiar about him when I first saw.
looked fat at have pass
about I


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 31
-
him for that brief moment in the corridor.
I looked down at him again as he lay on his
back on the faded carpet. I brought the candle
down closer and scanned his features.
He certainly looked less foreign than he did
before. He might not be a German after all:
more likely a Hungarian or a Pole, perhaps
even a Dutchman. His German had been too
flawless for a Frenchman-for a Hungarian,
either, for that matter.
I leant back on my knees to ease my cramped
position. As I did so I caught a glimpse of the
stranger's three-quarters face.
Why! He reminded me of Francis a little!
There certainly was a suggestion of my
brother in the man's appearance. Was it the
thick black hair, the small dark moustache?
Was it the well-chiselled mouth? It was rather
a hint of Francis than a resemblance to him.
The stranger was fully dressed. The jacket
of his blue serge suit had fallen open and I saw
a portfolio in the inner breast pocket. Here, I
thought, might be a clue to the dead man's iden-
tity. I fished out the portfolio, then rapidly
ran my fingers over the stranger's other pock-
ets.
I left the portfolio to the last.
The jacket pockets contained nothing else ex-
cept a white silk handkerchief unmarked. In


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR
33
Dr. Semlin,
Brooklyn, N. Y.
The Halewright Mfg. Com, Ltd
There were also half a dozen private cards :
Dr. Semlin,
333 E. 73rd St.,
New York
Rivington Park House.
In the packet of cards was a solitary one,
larger than the rest, an expensive affair on
thick, highly glazed millboard, bearing in gothic
characters the name:
OTTO VON STEINHARDT
On this card was written in pencil, above the
name:
“Hotel Sixt, Vos in't Tuintje," and in
brackets, thus: “[Mme. Anna Schratt.]”.
In another pocket of the portfolio was an
American passport surmounted by a flaming
eagle and sealed with a vast red seal, sending


34 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
greetings to all and sundry on behalf of Henry
Semlin, a United States citizen, travelling to
Europe. Details in the body of the document
set forth that Henry Semlin was born at
Brooklyn on 31st March, 1886, that his hair
was Black, nose Aquiline, chin Firm, and that
of special marks he had None. The description
was good enough to show me that it was un-
doubtedly the body of Henry Semlin that lay at
my feet.
The passport had been issued at Washington
three months earlier. The only visé it bore was
that of the American Embassy in London,
dated two days previously. With it was a
British permit, issued to Henry Semlin, Manu-
facturer, granting him authority to leave the
United Kingdom for the purpose of travelling
to Rotterdam, further a bill for luncheon served
on board the Dutch Royal mail steamer
Koningin Regentes on yesterday's date.
In the long and anguishing weeks that fol-
lowed on that anxious night in the Hotel of the
Vos in't Tuintje, I have often wondered to
what malicious promptings, to what insane im-
pulse, I owed the idea that suddenly germinated
in my brain as I sat fingering the dead man's let-
ter-case in that squalid room. The impulse
sprang into my brain like a flash and like a
flash I acted on it, though I can hardly believe


36
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
as in England. Knowing the attitude of the
British authorities, he may well have made his
arrangements in Holland for getting into Ger-
many lest the British police should get wind of
his purpose and stop him crossing to Rotter-
dam.
But his German was so flawless, with no trace
of Americanism in voice or accent. And I.
knew what good use the German Intelligence
had made of neutral passports in the past.
Therefore I determined to go next door and
have a look at Dr. Semlin's luggage. In the
back of my mind was ever that harebrain
resolve, half-formed as yet but none the less
firmly rooted in my head.
Taking up my candle again, I stole out of the
room. As I stood in the corridor and turned to
lock the bedroom door behind me, the mirror at
the end of the passage caught the reflection of
my candle.
I looked and saw myself in the glass, a white,
staring face.
I looked again. Then I fathomed the riddle
that had puzzled me in the dead face of the
stranger in my room.
It was not the face of Francis that his fea-
tures suggested.
It was mine!


38 THE MAN WITH THE CLUPFOOT
of the gap showed no fraying, no trace of rough
usage. On the contrary, the edges were pasted
neatly down on the leather.
I lifted the bag and examined it. As I did
so I saw lying on the table beside it an oblong
of yellow canvas. I picked it up and found the
under side stained with paste and the brown of
the leather.
It was the missing piece of lining and it was
stiff with something that crackled inside it.
I slit the piece of canvas up one side with my
penknife. It contained three long fragments of
paper, a thick, expensive, highly glazed paper
Top, bottom and left-hand side of each was trim
and glossy: the fourth side showed a broken
edge as though it had been roughly cut with a
knife. The three slips of paper were the halves
of three quarto sheets of writing, torn in two,
lengthways, from top to bottom.
At the top of each slip was part of some kind
of crest in gold, what, it was not possible to de-
termine, for the crest had been in the center of
the sheet and the cut had gone right through it.
The letter was written in English but the
name of the recipient as also the date was on
the missing half.
Somewhere in the silence of the night I heard
a door bang. I thrust the slips of paper in
their canvas covering into my trousers pocket.


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 39
I must not be found in that room. With trem-
bling hands I started to put the things back in
the bag. Those slips of paper, I reflected as I
worked, at least rent the veil of mystery en-
veloping the corpse that lay stiffening in the
next room. This, at any rate, was certain:
German or American or hyphenate, Henry Sem-
lin, manufacturer and spy, had voyaged from
America to England not for the purposes of
trade but to get hold of that mutilated docu-
ment now reposing in my pocket. Why he had
only got half the letter and what had happened
to the other half was more than I could say ...
it sufficed for me to know that its importance
to somebody was sufficient to warrant a journey
on its behalf from one side to the other of the
Atlantic.
As I opened the bag my fingers encountered
a hard substance, as of metal, embedded in the
slack of the lining in the joints of the mouth.
At first I thought it was a coin, then I felt some
kind of clasp or fastening behind it and it
seemed to be a brooch. Out came my pocket
knife again and there lay a small silver star,
about as big as a regimental cap badge, em-
bedded in the thin canvas. It bore an inscrip-
tion. In stencilled letters I read:


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 41
of unpleasantly truthful foreign correspondents
to the frontier. It is the obedient handmaiden
of the Intelligence Department of both War
Office and Admiralty in Germany, and renders
faithful service to the espionage which is con-
stantly maintained on officials, politicians, the
clergy and the general public in that land of
careful organization.
Section Seven is a vast subterranean depart-
ment. Always working in the dark, its political
complexion is a handy cloak for blacker and
more sinister activities. It is frequently en-
trusted with commissions of which it would be
inexpedient for official Germany to have cog-
nizance and which, accordingly, official Ger-
many can always safely repudiate when occa-
sion demands.
I thrust the pin of the badge into my braces
and fastened it there, crammed the rest of the
dead man's effects into his bag, stuck his hat
upon my head and threw his overcoat on my
arm, picked up his bag and crept away. In
another minute I was back in my room, my
brain aflame with the fire of a great enterprise.
Here, to my hand, lay the key of that locked
land which held the secret of my lost brother.
The question I had been asking myself, ever
since I had first discovered the dead man's
American papers of identity, was this. Had I


42 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
the nerve to avail myself of Semlin's American
passport to get into Germany? The answer
to that question lay in the little silver badge.
I knew that no German official, whatever his
standing, whatever his orders, would refuse
passage to the silver star of Section Seven. It
need only be used, too, as a last resource, for I
had my papers as a neutral. Could I but once
set foot in Germany, I was quite ready to de-
pend on my wits to see me through. One ad-
vantage, I knew, I must forgo. That was the
half-letter in its canvas case.
If that document was of importance to Sec-
tion Seven of the German Police, then it
was of equal, nay, of greater importance to
my country. If I went, that should remain
behind in safe keeping.
“Never before, since the war began," I told
myself, “can any Englishman have had such
an opportunity vouchsafed to him for getting
easily and safely into that jealously guarded
land as you have now! You have plenty of
money, what with your own and this ..."
and I fingered Semlin's wad of notes, “and pro-
vided you can keep your head sufficiently to re-
member always that you are a German, once
over the frontier you should be able to give the
Huns the slip and try and follow up the trail of
poor Francis.


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 43
soAnd maybe," I argued further (so easily
k one's better judgment defeated when one is
yoning and set on a thing), “maybe in German
surroundings, you may get some sense into that
mysterious jingle you got from Dicky Allerton
as the sole existing clue to the disappearance of
Francis."
Nevertheless, I wavered. The risks were
awful. I had to get out of that evil hotel in
the guise of Dr. Semlin, with, as the sole safe-
guard against exposure, should I fall in with
the dead man's employers or friends, that
slight and possibly imaginative resemblance
between him and me: I had to take such
measures as would prevent the fraud from
being detected when the body was discovered
in the hotel: above all, I had to ascertain, be-
fore I could definitely resolve to push or into
Germany, whether Semlin was already known
to the people at the hotel or whether-as I
surmisd to be the case—this was also his first
visit to the house in the Vos in't Tuintje.
In any case, I was quite determined in my
own mind that the only way to get out of the
place with Semlin's document without con-
siderable unpleasantness, if not grave danger,
would be to transfer his identity and effects to
myself and vice versâ. When I saw the way a
little clearer I could decide whether to take the


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
supreme risk and adventure myself into the
enemy's country.
Whatever I was going to do, there were not
many hours of the night left in which to act,
and I was determined to be out of that house of
ill omen before day dawned. If I could get
clear of the hotel and at the same time ascer-
tain that Semlin was as much a stranger there
as myself, I could decide on my further course
of action in the greater freedom of the streets
of Rotterdam. One thing was certain: the
waiter had let the question of Semlin's papers
stand over until the morning, as he had done
in my case, for Semlin still had his passport in
his possession.
After all, if Semlin was unknown at the hotel,
the waiter had only seen him for the same brief
moment as he had seen me.
Thus I reasoned and argued with myself, but
in the meantime I acted. I had nothing com-
promising in my suit-case, so that caused no
difficulty. My British passport and permit and
anything bearing any relation to my person-
ality, such as my watch and cigarette case, both
of which were engraved with my initials, I
transferred to the dead man's pockets. As I.
bent over the stiff, cold figure with its livid face
and clutching fingers, I felt a difficulty which
I had hitherto resolutely shirked forcing itself
we


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 45
squarely into the forefront of my mind.
What was I going to do about the body?
At that moment came a low knocking,
With a sudden sinking at the heart I remem-
bered I had forgotten to lock the door.


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN'T TUINTJE 47
and displayed a vast bosom tightly compressed
into a white silk blouse. In one hand she car-
ried an oil lamp.
"Frau Schratt,” she said by way of intro-
duction, and raised the lamp to look more close-
ly at me.
Then I saw her face change. She was look-
ing past me into the room, and I knew that the
lamplight was falling full upon the ghastly
thing that lay upon the floor.
I realized the woman was about to scream, so
I seized her by the wrist. She had disgusting
hands, fat and podgy and covered with rings.
“Quiet!" I whispered fiercely in her ear,
never relaxing my grip on her wrist. “You
will be quiet and come in here, do you under-
stand?"
She sought to shrink from me, but I held her
fast and drew her into the room.
She stood motionless with her lamp, at the
head of the corpse. She seemed to have re-
gained her self-possession. The woman was no
longer frightened. I felt instinctivly that her
fears had been all for herself, not for that livid
horror sprawling on the floor. When she spoke
her manner was almost business-like.
“I was told nothing of this,” she said. “Who
is it? What do you want me to do?”
Of all the sensations of that night, none has,
ne


48
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
left a more unpleasant odor in my memory than
the manner of that woman in the chamber of
death. Her voice was incredibly hard. Her
dull, basilisk eyes, seeking in mine the answers
to her questions, gave me an eerie sensation
that makes my blood run cold whenever I think
of her.
Then suddenly her manner, arrogant, inso-
lent, cruel, changed. She became polite. She
was obsequious. Of the two, the first manner
became her vastly better. She looked at me
with a curious air, almost with reverence, as it
seemed to me. She said, in a purring voice:
“Ach, so! I did not understand. The gen-
tleman must excuse me.”
And she purred again: “So!”
It was then I noticed that her eyes were fast-
ened upon my chest. I followed their direc-
tion.
They rested on the silver badge I had stuck
in my braces.
I understood and held my peace. Silence was
my only trump until I knew how the land lay.
If I left this woman alone, she would tell me all
I wanted to know.
In fact, she began to speak again.
“I expected you,” she said, “but not ...
this. Who is it this time? A Frenchman, eh?”
I shook my head.


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN'T TUINTJE 49
sur-
"An Englishman,” I said curtly.
Her eyes opened in wonder.
“Ach, nein!” she cried—and you would have
said her voice vibrated with pleasure--"An,
Englishman! Ei, ei!”
If ever a human being licked its chops, that
woman did.
She wagged her head and repeated to her-
self: “Ei, ei!” adding, as if to explain her sur-
prise, “he is the first we have had.
"You brought him here, eh! But why up
here? Or did der Stelze send him?"
She fired this string of questions at me with-
out pausing for a reply. She continued:
“I was out, but Karl told me. There was
another came, too: Franz sent him.”
“This is he,” I said. “I caught him prying
in my room and he died.”
"Ach!" she ejaculated ... and in her
voice was all the world of admiration that a
German woman feels for brute man. ...
“The Herr Engländer came into your room
and he died. So, so! But one must speak to
Franz. The man drinks too much. He is
always drunk. He makes mistakes. It will
not do. I will. ..."
"I wish you to do nothing against Franz," I
said. “This Englishman spoke German well:
Karl will tell you."
.


50
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“As the gentleman wishes," was the woman's
reply in a voice so silky and so servile that I
felt my gorge rise.
“She looks like a slug!" I said to myself, as
she stood there, fat and sleek and horrible.
"Here are his passport and other papers,”
I said, bending down and taking them from
the dead man's pocket. “He was an English
officer, you see?” And I unfolded the little
black book stamped with the Royal Arms.
She leant forward and I was all but stifled
with the stale odor of the patchouli with which
her faded body was drenched.
Then, making a sheaf of passport and permit,
I held them in the flame of the candle.
“But we always keep them !” expostulated
the hotel-keeper.
“This passport must die with the man," I
replied firmly. “He must not be traced. I
want no awkward enquiries made, you under-
stand. Therefore ..."and I flung the burn-
ing mass of papers into the grate.
"Good, good!” said the German and put her
lamp down on the table. "There was a tele-
phone message for you,” she added, “to say
that der Stelze will come at eight in the morn-
ing to receive what you have brought.”
The deuce! This was getting awkward. Who
the devil was Stelze ?


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN'T TUINTJE 51
"Coming at eight is he?" I said, simply for
the sake of saying something.
“Jawohl!" replied Frau Schratt. "He was
here already this morning. He was nervous,
oh! very, and expected you to be here. Already
two days he is waiting here to go on."
“So," I said, “he is going to take ...it
on with him, is he?" (I knew where he was
"going on” to, well enough: he was going to
see that document safe into Germany.)
There was a malicious ring in the woman's
voice when she spoke of Stelze. I thought I
might profit by this. So I drew her out.
“So Stelze called to-day and gave you his
orders, did he?" I said, "and ... and took
charge of things generally, eh?”
Her little eyes snapped viciously.
“Ach!” she said, “der Stelze is der Stelze.
He has power; he has authority; he can make
and unmake men. But I... I in my time
have broken a dozen better men than he and yet
he dares to tell Anna Schratt that ...
that ..."
She raised her voice hysterically, but broke
off before she could finish the sentence. I saw
she thought she had said too much.
“He won't play that game with me," I said,
Strength is the quality that every German, man,
woman and child, respects, and strength alone.


52 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
My safety depended on my showing this
ignoble creature that I received orders from
no one. “You know what he is. One runs the
risk, one takes trouble, one is successful. Then
he steps in and gathers the laurels. No, I am
not going to wait for him.”
The hotel-keeper sprang to her feet, her
faded face all ravaged by the shadow of a great
fear.
"You wouldn't dare!” she said.
“I would,” I retorted. “I've done my work
and I'll report to headquarters and to no one
else!"
My eyes fell upon the body.
“Now, what are we going to do with this?"
I said. “You must help me, Frau Schratt.
This is serious. This must not be found here."
She looked up at me in surprise.
“That?” she said, and she kicked the body
with her foot. “Oh, that will be all right with
die Schratt! “It must not be found here'"
(she mimicked my grave tone). “It will not be
found here, young man!”
And she chuckled with all the full-bodied
good humor of a fat person.
“You mean?”
“I mean what I mean, young man, and what
you mean,” she replied. “When they are in a
difficulty, when there are complications, when


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN'T TUINTJE 53
there is any unpleasantness . . . like this ...
they remember die Schratt, die fesche Anna,'
as they called me once, and it is 'gnädige Frau'
here and "gnädige Frau' there and a diamond
bracelet or a pearl ring, if only I will do the
little conjuring trick that will smooth every-
thing over. But when all goes well, then I am
'old Schratt,' 'old hag,' old woman,' and I
must take my orders and beg nicely and ...
bah!”
Her words ended in a gulp, which in any
other woman would have been a sob.
Then she added in her hard harlot's voice:
“You needn't worry your head about him,
there! Leave him to me! It's my trade!” 2
At those words, which covered God only
knows what horrors of midnight disappear-
ances, of ghoulish rites with packing-case and
sack, in the dark cellars of that evil house, I
felt that, could I but draw back from the enter-
prise to which I had so rashly committed my-
self, I would do so gladly. Only then did I be-
gin to realize something of the utter ruthless-
ness, the cold, calculating ferocity, of the most
bitter and most powerful enemy which the
British Empire has ever had.
But it was too late to withdraw now. The
die was cast Destiny, knocking at my door,
had found me ready to follow, and I was com-


54 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
mitted to whatever might befall me in my new
personality.
The German woman turned to go.
“Der Stelze will be here at eight, then," she
said. “I suppose the gentleman will take his
early morning coffee before.”
“I shan't be here," I said. “You can tell
your friend I've gone."
She turned on me like a flash.
She was hard as flint again.
"Nein!” she cried. “You stay here!”
“No," I answered with equal force, “not
I..."
“... Orders are orders and you and I must
obey!”
“But who is Stelze that he should give orders
to me?” I cried
“Who is ...?” She spoke aghast.
“... And you yourself," I continued,
“were saying. .."
“When an order has been given, what you
or I think or say is of no account," the woman
said. “It is an order: you and I know whose
order. Let that suffice. You stay here! Good
night!”
With that she was gone. She closed the door
behind her; the key rattled in the lock and I
realized that I was a prisoner. I heard the
woman's footfalls die away down the corridor.


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN’T TUINTJE 55
That distant clock cleaved the silence of the
night with twelve ponderous strokes. Then
the chimes played a pretty jingling little tune
that rang out clearly in the still, rain-washed
air.
I stood petrified and reflected on my next
move.
Twelve o'clock! I had eight hours' grace
before Stelze, the man of mystery and might,
arrived to unmask me and hand me over to the
tender mercies of Madame and of Karl. Be-
fore eight o'clock arrived I must-so I summed
up my position-be clear of the hotel and in the
train for the German frontier-if I could get a
train-else I must be out of Rotterdam, by
that hour.
But I must act and act without delay. There
was no knowing when that dead man lying on
the floor might procure me another visit from
Madame and her myrmidons. The sooner I
was out of that house of death the better.
The door was solid; the lock was strong.
That I discovered without any trouble. In any
case, I reflected, the front door of the hotel
would be barred and bolted at this hour of the
night, and I could scarcely dare hope to escape
by the front without detection, even if Karl
were not actually in the entrance hall. There
must be a back entrance to the hotel, I thought,


50 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
for I had seen that the windows of my room
opened on to the narrow street lining the canal
which ran at the back of the house.
Escape by the windows was impossible. The
front of the house dropped sheer down and there
was nothing to give one a foothold. But I re-
membered the window in the cabinet de toilette
giving on to the little air-shaft. That seemed :
to offer a slender chance of escape.
For the second time that night I opened the
casement and inhaled the fetid odors arising
from the narrow court. All the windows look-
ing, like mine, upon the air-shaft were shrouded
in darkness: only a light still burned in the
window beneath the grating with the iron stair
to the little yard. What was at the foot of the
stair I could not descry, but I thought I could
recognize the outline of a door.
From the window of the cabinet de toilette to
the yard the sides of the house, cased in stained
and dirty stucco, fell sheer away. Measured
with the eye the drop from the window to the
pavement was about fifty feet. With a rope
and something to break one's fall it might, I
fancied, be managed. ...
From that on, things moved swiftly. First
with my penknife I ripped the tailor's tab with
my name from the inside pocket of my coat
and burnt it in the candle: nothing else I had


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN’T TUINTJE 57
on was marked, for I had had to buy a lot of
new garments when I came out of hospital. I
took Semlin's overcoat, hat and bag into the
cabinet de toilette and stood them in readiness
by the window. As a precaution against sur-
prise I pushed the massive mahogany bedstead
right across the doorway and thus barricaded
the entrance to the room.
From either side of the fireplace hung two
bell-ropes, twisted silk cords of faded crimson
with dusty tassels. Mounting on the mantle-
piece I cut the bell-ropes off short where they
joined the wire. Testing them I found them
apparently solid-at any rate they must serve.
I knotted them together.
Back to the cabinet de toilette I went to find
a suitable object to which to fasten my rope.
There was nothing in the little room save the
washstand, and that was fragile and quite un-
suited for the purpose. I noticed that the win-
dow was fitted with shutters on the outside fast-
ened back against the wall. They had not been
touched for years, I should say, for the iron
peg holding them back was heavy with rust and
the shutters were covered with dust. I closed
the left-hand shutter and found that it fastened
solidly to the window-frame by means of mas-
sive iron bolts, top and bottom.
Here was the required support for my rope.


58. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
The poker thrust through the wooden slips of
the shutter held the rope quite solidly. I at-
tached my rope to the poker with an expert
knot that I had picked up at a course in tying
knots during a preposterously dull week I had
spent at the base in France. Then I dragged
from the bed the gigantic eiderdown pin-
cushion and the two massive pillows, stripping
off the pillow-slips lest their whiteness might
attract attention whilst they were fulfilling the
unusual mission for which I destined them.
At the window of the cabinet de toilette I
listened a moment. All was silent as the grave.
Resolutely I pitched out the eiderdown into the
dark and dirty air shaft. It sailed gracefully
earthwards and settled with a gentle plop on
the stones of the tiny yard. The pillows fol-
lowed. The heavier thud they would have made
was deadened by the billowy mass of the édre-
don. Semlin's bag went next, and made no
sound to speak of; then his overcoat and hat
followed suit.
I noticed, with a grateful heart, that the
eiderdown and pillows covered practically the
whole of the flags of the yard.
I went back once more to the room and blew
out the candle. Then, taking a short hold on
my silken rope, I clambered out over the win-
dow ledge and started to let myself down.


60 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
I could see the broken bell-ropes dangling from
the shutter, and I noted, with a glow of profes-
sional pride, that my expert join between the
two ropes had not given. The lower rope had
parted in the middle.....
I crammed Semlin's hat on my head, re-
trieved his bag and overcoat from the corner
of the court where they had fallen and the next
moment was tiptoeing down the ladder.
The iron stair ran down beside the window
in which I had seen the light burning. The
lower part of the window was screened off by a
dirty muslin curtain. Through the upper part
I caught a glimpse of a sort of scullery with a
paraffin lamp standing on a wooden table. The
room was empty. From top to bottom the win-
dow was protected by heavy iron bars.
At the foot of the iron stair stood, as I had
anticipated, a door. It was my last chance of
escape. It stood a dozen yards from the bottom
of the ladder across a dank, little paved area
where tins of refuse were standing a small
door with a brass handle.
I ducked low as I clambered down the iron
ladder so as not to be seen from the window
should anyone enter the scullery as I passed.
Treading very softly I crept across the little
area and, as quietly as I could, turned the
handle of the door.


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN'T TUINTJE 61
It turned round easily in my hand, but no-
thing happened.
The door was locked.


CHAPTER VI
I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN AND LEAVE A LAMB
GENTLEMAN ON THE PLATFORM
WAS caught like a rat in a trap. I could
not return by the way I had come and the
only egress was closed to me. The area
door and window were the only means of es-
cape from the little court. The one was locked,
the other barred. I was fairly trapped. All I
had to do now was to wait until my absence was
discovered and the broken rope found to show
them where I was. Then they would come
down to the area, I should be confronted with
the man, Stelze, and my goose would be fairly
cooked.
As quietly as I could I made a complete,
thorough, rapid examination of the area. It
was a dank, dark place, only lit where the yel-
· low light streamed forth from the scullery. It
had a couple of low bays hollowed out of the
masonry under the little court-yard, the ono


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 03
filled with wood blocks, the other with broken
packing-cases, old bottles and like rubbish. I
explored these until my hands came in contact
with the damp bricks at the back, but in vain.
Door and window remained the only means of
escape.
Four tall tin refuse bins stood in line in front
of these two bays, a fifth was stowed away
under the iron stair. They were all nearly full
of refuse, so were useless as hiding-places. In
any case it accorded neither with the part I
was playing nor with my sense of the ludicrous
to be discovered by the hotel domestics hiding
in a refuse bin.
I was at my wits' end to know what to do. I
had dared so much, all had gone so surprisingly
well, that it was heartbreaking to be foiled with
liberty almost within my grasp. A great wave
of disappointment swept over me until I felt
my very heart sicken. Then I heard footsteps
and hope revived within me.
I shrunk back into the darkness of the area
behind the refuse bins standing in front of the
bay nearest the door.
Within the house footsteps were approaching
the scullery. I heard a door open, then a man's
voice singing. He was warbling in a fine mel-
low baritone that popular German ballad :
"Das haben die Mädchen so gerne
Die im Stübchen und die im Salong."


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 65
The waiter hummed to himself the melody
of his little ditty in a deep bourdon as he paused
a moment at the door. Then he advanced slow-
ly across the area.
Would be stop at the refuse bins behind
which I cowered?
No, he passed them.
The third? The fourth?
No!
He walked straight across the area and went
to the bin beneath the stairs.
I muttered a blessing inwardly on the care-
ful habits of the German who organizes even
his refuse into separate tubs.
The man had his back to the door.
Now or never was my chance.
I crawled round my friendly garbage bins,
reached the area door on tip-toe and stepped
softly into the house. As I did so I heard the
clank of tin as Karl replaced the lid of the tub.
A dark passage stretched out in front of me.
Immediately to my right was the scullery door
wide open. I must avoid the scullery at all
costs. The man might remain there and I could
not risk him driving me before him back to the
entrance hall of the hotel.
I crept down the dark passage with hands
outstretched. Presently they fell upon the
latch of a door. I pressed it, the door opened


66 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
inwards into the darkness and I passed through.
As I softly closed the door behind me I heard
Karl's heavy step and the grinding of the key
as he locked the area door.
I stood in a kind of cupboard in pitch dark-
ness, hardly daring to breathe.
Once more I heard the man singing his idiotic
song. I did not dare look out from my hiding-
place, for his voice sounded so near that I
feared he might be still in the passage.
So I stood and waited.
I must have stayed there for an hour in the
dark. I heard the waiter coming and going in
the scullery, listened to his heavy tramp, to his
everlasting snatch of song, to the rattle of uten-
sils, as he went about his work. Every minute
of the time I was tortured by the apprehension
that he would come to the cupboard in the pas-
sage.
It was cold in that damp subterranean place.
The cupboard was roomy enough, so I thought
I would put on the overcoat I was carrying.
As I stretched out my arm, my hand struck
hard against some kind of projecting hook in
the wall behind me.
“Damn!" I swore savagely under my breath,
but I put out my hand again to find out what


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 69
had hurt me. My fingers encountered the cold
iron of a latch. I pressed it and it gave.
A door swung open and I found myself in
another little area with a flight of stone steps
leading to the street.
I was in a narrow lane driven between the
tall sides of the houses. It was a cul-de-sac.
At the open end I could see the glimmer of
street lamps. It had stopped raining and the
air was fresh and pleasant. Carrying my bag
I walked briskly down the lane and presently
emerged in a quiet thoroughfare traversed by a
canal-probably the street, I thought, that I
had seen from the windows of my bedroom.
The Hotel Sixt lay to the right of the lane: I
struck out to the left and in a few minutes
found myself in an open square behind the
Bourse.
There I found a cab-rank with three or four
cabs drawn up in line, the horses somnolent, the
drivers snoring inside their vehicles. I stirred
up the first and bade the driver take me to the
Café Tarnowski.
Everyone who has been to Holland knows
the Café Tarnowski at Rotterdam. It is an
immense place with hundreds of marble-topped
tables tucked away among palms under a vast


68 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
ION
glazed roof. Day or night it never closes: the
waiters succeed each other in shifts: day and
night the great hall resounds to the cry of ord-
ers, the patter of the waiters' feet, the cliek of
dominoes on the marble tables.
Delicious Dutch café au lait, a beefsteak and
fried potatoes, most succulent of all Dutch
dishes, crisp white bread, hot from the midnight
baking, and appetizing Dutch butter, largely
compensated for the thrills of the night. Then
I sent for some more coffee, black this time,
and a railway guide, and lighting a cigarette
began to frame my plan of campaign.
The train for Berlin left Rotterdam at seven
in the morning. It was now ten minutes past
two, so I had plenty of time. From that night
onward, I told myself, I was a German, and
from that moment I set myself assiduously to
feel myself a German as well as enact the part.
"It's no use dressing a part," Francis used
to say to me; "you must feel it as well. If I
were going to disguise myself as a Berliner, I
should not be content to shave my head and
wear a bowler hat with a morning coat and get
my nails manicured pink. I should begin by
persuading myself that I was the Lord of crea-
tion, that bad manners is a sign of manly
strength and that dishonesty is the highest
form of diplomacy.”


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 69
an
Poor old Francis! How shrewd he was and
how well he knew his Berliners!
There is nothing like newspapers for giving
one an idea of national sentiment. I had not
spoken to a German, save to a few terrified
German rats, prisoners of war in France, since
the beginning of the war and I knew that my
; knowledge of German thought must be rusty.
So I sent the willing waiter for all the German
papers and periodicals he could lay his hands
on. He returned with stacks of them, Berliner
Tageblatt, Kölnische Zeitung, Vorwärts; the
alleged comic papers, Kladderadatsch, Lustige
Blätter and Simplicissimus; the illustrated
press, Leipziger Illustrirte Zeitung, Der Welt-
krieg im Bild, and the rest: that remarkable
café even took in such less popular publications
as Harden's Zukunft and semi-blackmailing
rags like Der Roland von Berlin.
For two hours I saturated myself with Ger-
man contemporary thought as expressed in
the German press. I deliberately laid my mind
open to conviction; I repeated to myself over
and over again: “We Germans are fighting a
defensive war: the scoundrelly Grey made the
world-war: Gott strafe England!” Absurd as
this proceeding seems to me when I look back
upon it, I would not laugh at myself at the time.
I must be German, I must feel German, I must


70 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
think German: on that would my safety in the
immediate future depend.
I laid aside my reading in the end with a
feeling of utter amazement. In every one of
these publications, in peace-time 80 widely
dissimilar in conviction and trend, I found
the same mentality, the same outlook, the same
parrot-like cries. What the Cologne Gazette
shrieked from its editorial columns, the comic
(God save the mark) press echoed in foul and
hideous caricature. Here was organization
with a vengeance, the mobilization of national
thought, a series of gramophone records fed
into a thousand different machines so that each
might play the selfsame tune.
"You needn't worry about your German
mentality," I told myself, “you've got it all
here! You've only got to be a parrot like the
rest and you'll be as good a Hun as Hinden-
burg!”
A Continental waiter, they say, can get one
anything one chooses to ask for at any hour of
the day or night. I was about to put this theory
to the test.
“Waiter," I said (of course, in German), “I
want a bag, a handbag. Do you think you could
get me one?"
“Does the gentleman want it now?" the man
replied.


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 71
"This very minute," I answered.
“About that size?”-indicating Semlin's.
“Yes, or smaller if you like: I am not par-
ticular."
“I will see what can be done."
In ten minutes the man was back with a
brown leather bag about a size smaller than
Semlin's. It was not new and he charged me
thirty gulden (which is about fifty shillings)
for it. I paid with a willing heart and tipped
him generously to boot, for I wanted a bag and
could not wait till the shops opened without
missing the train for Germany.
I paid my bill and drove off to the Central
Station through the dark streets with my two
bags. The clocks were striking six as I en-
tered under the great glass dome of the station
hall.
I went straight to the booking-office, and
bought a first-class ticket, single, to Berlin.
One never knows what may happen and I had
several things to do before the train went.
· The bookstall was just opening. I purchased
a sovereign's worth of books and magazines,
English, French and German, and crammed
them into the bag I had procured at the café.
Thus laden I adjourned to the station buffet.
There I set about executing a scheme I had
evolved for leaving the document which Semlin


72 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
had brought from England in a place of safety,
whence it could be recovered without difficulty,
should anything happen to me. I knew no one
in Holland save Dicky, and I could not send
him the document, for I did not trust the post.
For the same reason I would not post the docu-
ment home to my bank in England: besides, I
knew one could not register letters until eight
o'clock, by which hour I hoped to be well on
my way into Germany.
No, my bag, conveniently weighted with
books and deposited at the station cloak-
room, should be my safe. The comparative
security of station cloak-rooms as safe deposits
has long been recognized by jewel thieves
and the like and this means of leaving my docu-
ment behind in safety seemed to me to be better
than any other I could think of.
So I dived into my bag and from the piles of
literature it contained picked up a book at ran-
dom. It was a German brochure: Gott strafe
England! by Prof. Dr. Hugo Bischoff, of the
· University of Göttingen. The irony of the
thing appealed to my sense of humor. “So be
it!" I said. "The worthy Professor's fulmina-
tions against my country shall have the honor
of harboring the document which is, apparent-
ly, of such value to his country!” And I tucked
the little canvas case away inside the pages of


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 73
the pamphlet, stuck the pamphlet deep down
among the books and shut the bag.
Seeing its harmless appearance the cloak-
room receipt-I calculated—would, unlike Sem-
lin's document, attract no attention if, by any
mischance, it fell into wrong hands en route.
I therefore did not scruple to commit it to the
post. Before taking my bag of books to the
cloak-room I wrote two letters. Both were to
Ashcroft-Ashcroft of the Foreign Office, who
got me my passport and permit to come to Rot-
terdam. Herbert Ashcroft and I were old
friends. I addressed the envelopes to his pri-
vate house in London. The Postal Censor, I
knew, keen though he always is after letters
from neutral countries, would leave old Her-
bert's correspondence alone.
The first letter was brief. “Dear Herbert,"
I wrote, "would you mind looking after the en-
closed until you hear from me again? Filthy
weather here. Yours, D. 0." This letter was
destined to contain the cloak-room receipt. To
conceal the importance of an enclosure, it is al-
ways a good dodge to send the covering letter
under separate cover.
“Dear Herbert," I said in my second letter,
“If you don't hear from me within two months
of this date regarding the enclosure you will
have already received, please send someone, or,


74 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
preferably, go yourself and collect my luggage
at the cloak-room of the Rotterdam Central Sta-
tion. I know how busy you always are. There-
fore you will understand my reasons for mak-
ing this inordinate claim upon your time.
Yours, D. 0.” And, by way of a clue, I added,
inconsequently enough: “Gott strafe Eng-
land !!
I chuckled inwardly at the thought of Her-
bert's face on receiving this preposterous de-
mand that he should abandon his dusty desk
in Downing Street and betake himself across
the North Sea to fetch my luggage. But he'd
go all right. I knew my Herbert, dull and dry
and conventional, but a most faithful friend.
I called a porter at the entrance of the buffet
and handing him Semlin's bag and overcoat,
bade him find me a first-class carriage in the
Berlin train when it arrived. I would meet him
on the platform. Then, at the cloak-room op-
posite, I gave in my bag of books, put the re-
ceipt in the first letter and posted it in the let-
ter-box within the station. I went out into the
streets with the second letter and posted it in a
letter-box let into the wall of a tobacconist's
shop in a quiet street a few turnings away.
By this arrangement I reckoned Herbert would
get the letter with the receipt before the cover-
ing letter arrived.


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 75
Returning to the railway station I noticed a
kind of slop shop which despite the early hour
was already open. A fat Jew in his shirt-
sleeves, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,
stood at the entrance framed in hanging over-
coats and hats and boots. I had no umbrella
and it struck me that a waterproof of some kind
might not be a bad addition to my extremely
scanty wardrobe. Moreover, I reflected that
with the rubber shortage rain-coats must be at
a premium in Germany.
So I followed the bowing son of Shem into
his dark and dirty shop and emerged presently
wearing an appallingly ugly green mackintosh
reeking hideously of rubber. It was a shock-
ing garment but I reflected that I was a German
and must choose my garb accordingly.
Outside the shop I nearly ran into a little
man who was loafing in the doorway. He was
a wizened, scrubby old fellow wearing a dirty
peaked cap with a band of tarnished gold. I
knew him at once for one of those guides, half
tout, half bully, that infest the railway termini
of all great Continental cities.
“Want a guide, sir?” the man said in Ger-
man.
I shook my head and hurried on. The man
trotted beside me. “Want a good, cheap hotel,
sir! Good, respectable house. . . Want a..."


76 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“Ach! gehen Sie zum Teufel!” I cried an-
grily. But the man persisted, running along
beside me and reeling off his tout’s patter in a
wheezing, asthmatic voice. I struck off blindly
down the first turning we came to, hoping to be
rid of the fellow, but in vain. Finally, I stop-
ped and held out a gulden.
“Take this and go away!" I said.
The old fellow waved the coin aside.
“Danke, danke," he said nonchalantly, look-
ing at the same time to right and left.
Then he said in a calm English voice, utterly
different from his whining accents of a moment
before:“You must be a dam' cool hand!”
But he didn't bluff me, staggered though I
was. I said quickly in German:
"What do you want with me? I don't under-
stand you. If you annoy me any more I shall
call the police!”
Again he spoke in English and it was the
voice of a well-bred Englishman that spoke:
“You're either a past master at the game or
raving mad. Why! the whole station is hum-
ming after you! Yet you walked out of the
buffet and through the whole lot of them with-
out turning a hair. No wonder they never spot-
ted you!”
Again I answered in German:
“Ich verstehe nicht!"


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN
77
But he went on in English, without seeming
to notice my observation:
“Hang it all, man, you can't go into Ger-
many wearing a regimental tie!”
My hand flew to my collar and the blood to
my head. What a cursed amateur I was, after
all! I had entirely forgotten that I was wear-
ing my regimental colors. I was crimson with
vexation but also with a sense of relief. I felt
I might trust this man. It would be a sharp
German agent who would notice a small detail
like that.
Still I resolved to stick to German: I would
trust nobody.
But the guide had started his patter again.
I saw two workmen approaching. When they
had passed, he said, this time in English:
“You're quite right to be cautious with a
stranger like me, but I want to warn you. Why,
I've been following you round all the morning.
Lucky for you it was me and not one of the
others. ..."
Still I was silent. The little man went on:
“For the past half-hour they have been
combing that station for you. How you
managed to escape them I don't know except
that none of them seems to have a very clear
idea of your appearance. You don't look very
British, I grant you; but I spotted your tie and


78
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
then I recognized the British officer all right
“No, don't worry to tell me anything about
yourself—it is none of my business to know,
any more than you will find out anything about
me. I know where you are going, for I heard
you take your ticket; but you may as well under-
stand that you have as much chance of getting
into your train if you walk into the railway hall
and up the stairs in the ordinary way as you
have of flying across the frontier.”
“But they can't stop me!" I said. “This
isn't Germany. ..."
"Bah!" said the guide. “You will be jostled,
there will be an altercation, a false charge, and
you will miss your train! They will attend to
the rest!
“Damn it, man,” he went on, “I know what
I'm talking about. Here, come with me and
I'll show you. You have twenty minutes before
the train goes. Now start the German again!"
We went down the street together for all the
world like a "mug” in tow of one of those
blackguard guides. As we approached the sta-
tion the guide said in his whining German:
“Pay attention to me now. I shall leave you
here. Go to the suburban booking-office-the
entrance is in the street to the left of the sta-
tion hall. Go into the first-class waiting room
and look out of the window that gives on to the


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 79
station hall. There you will see some of the
forces mobilized against you. There is a regu-
lar cordon of guides-like me-drawn across
the entrances to the main-line platforms—unos-
tentatiously, of course. If you look you will
see plenty of plain-clothes Huns, too. ..."
“Guides ?” I said.
He nodded cheerfully.
“Looks bad for me, doesn't it? But one gets
better results by being one of them. Oh! it's
all right. In any case you've got to trust me
now.
“See here! When you have satisfied your-
self that I'm correct in what I say, take a plat-
form ticket and walk upstairs to platform No.
5. On that platform you will find a train. Go
to the end where the metals run out of the sta-
tion, where the engine would be coupled on,
and get into the last first-class carriage. On
no account move from there until you see me.
Now then, I'll have that gulden!”
I gave him the coin. The old fellow looked at
it and wagged his head, so I gave him another,
whereupon he took off his cap, bowed low and
hurried off.
In the suburban side waiting-room I peered
out of the window on to the station hall. True
enough, I saw one, two, four, six guides loafing
about the barriers leading to the main-line plat...


80 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
forms. There seemed to be a lot of people in
the hall and certainly a number of the men pos-
sessed that singular taste in dress, those rotun-
dities of contour, by which one may distinguish
the German in a crowd.
I now had no hesitation in following the
guide's instructions to the letter. Platform
No. 5 was completely deserted as I emerged
breathless from the long staircase and I had no
difficulty in getting into the last first-class
carriage unobserved. I sat down by the win-
dow on the far side of the carriage.
Alongside it ran the brown panels and gold
lettering of a German restaurant car.
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to
seven. There was no sign of my mysterious
friend. I wondered vaguely, too, what had be-
come of my porter. True, there was nothing of
importance in Semlin's bag, but a traveller with
luggage always commands more confidence
than one without.
Five minutes to seven! Still no word from
the guide. The minutes ticked away. By
Jove! I was going to miss the train. But I
sat resolutely in my corner. I had put my
trust in this man. I would trust him to the last.
Suddenly his face appeared in the window at
my elbow. The door was flung open.
“Quick!"he whisperedinmyear,“follow me.”


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 81
“My things ..." I gasped with one foot
on the foot-board of the other train. At the
same moment the train began to move.
The guide pointed to the carriage into which
I had clambered.
“The porter ..." I cried from the open
door, thinking he had not understood me.
The guide pointed towards the carriage
again, then tapped himself on the chest with a
significant smile.
The next moment he had disappeared and I
had not even thanked him.
The Berlin train bumped ponderously out of
the station. Peering cautiously out of the car-
riage, I caught a glimpse of the waiter, Karl,
hurrying down the platform. With him was a
swarthy, massively built man who leaned heav-
ily on a stick and limped painfully as he ran.
One of his feet, I could see, was misshapen and
the sweat was pouring down his face.
I would have liked to wave my hand to the
pair, but I prudently drew back out of sight of
the platform.
Caution, caution, caution, must henceforward
be my watchword.


CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM
I HAVE often remarked in life that there
x to be guiding one's every action. On such
are days when some benevolent deity seems y
days, do what you will, you cannot go wrong.
As the Berlin train bumped thunderously over
the culverts spanning the canals between the
tall, grey houses of Rotterdam and rushed out
imperiously into the plain of wind-mills and
pollards beyond, I reflected that this must be
my good day, so kindly had some fairy god-
mother shepherded my footsteps since I had left
the café.
So engrossed had I been, indeed, in the great
enterprise on which I was embarked, that my
actions throughout the morning had been main-
ly automatic. Yet how uniformly had they
tended to protect me! I had bought my ticket
in advance; I had given my overcoat and bag
to a porter that I now knew to have been my
82


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 83
savior in disguise; I had sallied forth from the
station and thus given him an opportunity for
safe converse with me. The omens were good:
I could trust my luck to-day, I felt, and, greatly
comforted, I began to look about me.
I found myself, the only occupant, in a first-
class carriage. On the window was plastered a
notice, in Dutch and German, to the effect that
the carriage was reserved. Suddenly I thought
of my bag and overcoat. They were nowhere
to be seen. After a little search I found them
beneath the seat. In the overcoat pocket was
a black tie.
I lost no time in taking the hint. If any of
you who read this tale should one day notice a
ganger on the railway between Rotterdam and
Dordrecht wearing the famous colors of a
famous regiment round his neck you will under-
stand how they got there. Then, wearied out
with the fatigues of my sleepless night, I fell
into a deep slumber, my verdant waterproof
swathed round me, Semlin's overcoat about my
knees.
I was dreaming fitfully of a mad escape from
hordes of wildly clutching guides, led by Karl
the waiter, when the screaming of brakes


84
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
and bright
was fully awoke and span
brought me to my senses. The train was
sensibly slackening speed. Outside the autumn
sun was shining over pleasant brown stretches
of moorland bright with heather. The next
moment and before I was fully awake we had
glided to a standstill at a very spick and span
station and the familiar cry of "Alles aus-
steigen!" rang in my ears.
We were in Germany.
The realization fell upon me like a thunder-
clap. I was in the enemy's country, sailing
under false colors, with only the most meagre
information about the man whose place I had
taken and no plausible tale, such as I had fully
intended to have ready, to carry me through
the rigorous scrutiny of the frontier police.
What was my firm? The Halewright Manu-
facturing Company. What did we manufac-
ture? I had not the faintest idea. Why was I
coming to Germany at all? Again I was at a
loss.
The clink of iron-shod heels in the corridor
and an officer, followed closely by two privates,
the white cross of the Landwehr in their hel-
mets, stood at the door.
“Your papers, please,” he said curtly but
politely.
I handed over my American passport.
“This has not been viséd," said the officer.


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 85
With a pang I realized that again I was at
fault. Of course, the passport should have
been stamped at the German Consulate at
Rotterdam.
“I had no time," I said boldly. “I am trav-
elling on most important business to Berlin.
...I only reached Rotterdam last night,
after the Consulate was closed."
The lieutenant turned to one of his guards.
“Take the gentleman to the Customs Hall,”
he said and went on to the next carriage.
The soldier appropriated my overcoat and
bag and beckoned me to follow him. Outside
the platform was railed off. Everyone, I no-
ticed, was shepherded into a long narrow pen
made with iron hurdles leading to a locked door
over which was writen: Zoll-Revision. I was
going to take my place in the queue when the
soldier prodded me with his elbow. He led me
to a side door which opened in the gaunt, bare
Customs Hall with its long row of trestles for
the examination of the passengers' luggage.
In a corner behind a desk was a large group of
officers and subordinate officials, all in the grey-
green uniform I knew so well from the life in
the trenches. The principal seemed to be an
immense man, inordinately gross and fat, with
a bloated face and great gold spectacles. He
was roaring in a loud, angry voice:


86 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“He's not come! There you are! Again
we shall have all the trouble for nothing !"
I thought he looked an extraordinarily bad-
tempered individual and I fervently prayed
that I should not be brought before him.
The doors were flung open. With a rush the
hall was invaded with a heterogeneous mob of
people huddled pellmell together and driven
along before a line of soldiers. For an hour or
more babel reigned. Officials bawled at the
public: the place rang with the sounds of angry
altercation. After a furious dispute one man,
wildly gesticulating, was dragged away by two
soldiers.
I never saw such a thorough examination in
my life. People's bags were literally turned
upside down and every single object pried into
and besnuffled. After the customs' examina-
tion passengers were passed on to the search-
ing rooms, the men to one side, the women to
the other. I caught sight of a female searcher
lolling at a door ... a monstrous and grim
female who reminded me of those dreadful
bathing women at the seaside in our early
youth.
The fat official had vanished into an office
leading off the Customs Hall. He was, I sur-
mised, the last instance, for several passengers,
including a very respectably dressed old lady,


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM
87
were driven into the side office and were seen
no more.
During all this scene of confusion no one had
taken any notice of me. My guard looked
straight in front of him and said never a word.
When the hall was all but cleared, a man came
to the office door and made a sign to my sen-
tinel.
At a table in the office which, despite the sun-
shine outside, was heated like a greenhouse, I
found the fat official. Something had evidently
upset him, for his brows were clouded with
anger and his mastiff-like cheeks were tremb-
ling with irritation. He thrust a hand out as
I entered.
“Your papers!” he grunted.
I handed over my passport.
Directly he had examined it, a red flush
spread over his cheeks and forehead and he
brought his hand down on the table with a
crash. The sentry beside me winced percep-
tibly.
“It's not viséd," the fat official screamed in
a voice shrill with anger. “It's worthless ...
what good do you think is this to me?"
“Excuse me..." I said in German.
"I won't excuse you," he roared. “Who are
you? What do you want in Germany! You've
been to London, I see by this passport."


88 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“I had no time to get my passport stamped
at the Consulate at Rotterdam,” I said. “I ar-
rived there too late in the evening. I could not
wait. I am going to Berlin on most important
business.”
"That's nothing to do with it,” the man
shouted. He was working himself up into a
fine frenzy. “Your passport is not in order.
You're not a German. You're an American.
We Germans know what to think of our Ameri-
can friends, especially those who come from
London."
A voice outside shouted: "Nach Berlin alles
einsteigen." I said as politely as I could, des-
pite my growing annoyance:
“I don't wish to miss my train. My journey
to Berlin is of the utmost importance. I trust
the train can be held back until I have satisfied
you of my good faith. I have here a card from
Herr von Steinhardt.”
I paused to let the name sink in. I was con-
vinced he must be a big bug of some kind in the
German service.
“I don't care a rap for Herr von Steinhardt
or Herr von anybody else," the German cried.
Then he said curtly to a cringing secretary be-
side him: “Has he been searched?"
The secretary cast a frightened look at the
sentry.


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 89
“No, Herr Major," said the secretary.
“Well, take him away and strip him and
bring me anything you find !".
The sentry spun on his heel like an auto-
maton.
The moment had come to play my last card,
I felt: I could not risk being delayed on the
frontier lest Stelze and his friends should catch
up with me. I was surprised to find that ap-
parently they had not telegraphed to have me
stopped.
“One moment, Herr Major," I said.
“Take him away!” The fat man waved me
aside.
“I warn you,” I continued, “that I am on
important business. I can convince you of
that, too. Only ..."and I looked round the
office. “All these must go.”
To my amazement the fat man's anger
vanished utterly. He stared hard at me, then
took off his spectacles and polished them with
his handkerchief. After this he said non-
chalantly: “Everybody get outside except this
gentleman!” The sentry, who had spun round
on his heel again, seemed about to speak: his
voice expired before it came out of his mouth:
he saluted, spun round again and followed the
rest out of the room.
When the place was cleared I pulled my left:


20 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
brace out of the armhole of my waistcoat and
displayed the silver star.
The fat man sprang up.
“The Herr Doktor must excuse me: I am
overwhelmed: I had no idea that the Herr
Doktor was not one of these tiresome American
spies that are overruning our country. The
Herr Doktor will understand. ... If the Herr
Doktor had but said ..."
“Herr Major," I said, endeavoring to put as
much insolence as I could into my voice (that
is what a German understands), “I am not in
the habit of bleating my business to every fool
I meet. Now I must go back to the train.”
“The Berlin train has gone, Herr Doktor,
but ..."
"The Berlin train gone?” I said. “But my
business brooks no delay. I tell you I must be
in Berlin to-night!”
“There is no question of your taking the or-
dinary train, Herr Doktor," the fat man re-
plied smoothly, “but unfortunately the special
which I had ready for you has been counter-
manded. I thought you were not coming
again."
A special? By Jove! I was evidently a per-
sonage of note. But a special would never do!
Where the deuce was it going to take me?
“The Berlin train was to have been held back


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 91
until your special was clear,” the Major went
on, "but we must stop her at Wesel until you
have passed. I will attend to that at once!"
He gave some order down the telephone and
after a brisk conversation turned to me with a
beaming face:
“They will stop her at Wesel and the special
will be ready in twenty-five minutes. But there
is no hurry. You have an hour or more to
spare. Might I offer the Herr Doktor a glass
of beer and a sandwich at our officers' casino
here?"
Well, I was in for it this time. A special
bearing me Heaven knows whither on unknown
business...! Perhaps I might be able to
extract a little information out of my fat friend
if I went with him, so I accepted his invitation
with suitable condescension.
The Major excused himself for an instant and
returned with my overcoat and bag.
“So!” he cried, "we can leave these here
until we come back!” Behind him through the
open door I saw a group of officials peering
curiously into the room. As we walked through
their midst, they fell back with precipitation.
There was a positive reverence about their
manner which I found extremely puzzling.
A waggonette, driven by an orderly, stood
in the station yard, one of the Customs officials,


92 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
hat in hand, at the door. We drove rapidly
through very spick-and-span streets to a little
square where the sentry at an iron gate denoted
the Officers' Club. In the anteroom four or
five officers in field-grey uniform were lounging.
As we entered they sprang to their feet and
remained stifly standing while the Major pre-
sented them, Hauptmann Pfahl, Oberleutnant
Meyer ... a string of names. One of the
officers had lost an arm, another was very lame,
the remainder were obvious dug-outs.
“An American gentleman, a good friend of
ours," was the form in which the Major intro-
duced me to the company. Again I found my-
self mystified by the extraordinary demonstra-
tions of respect with which I was received.
Germans don't like Americans, especially since
they took to selling shells to the Allies, and I
began to think that all these officers must know
more about me and my mission than I did my-
self. A stolid orderly, wearing white gloves,
brought beer and some extraordinary nasty-
looking sardine sandwiches which, on sampling,
I realized to be made of “war bread.”
While the beer was being poured out I
glanced round the room, bare and very simply
furnished. Terrible chromo-lithographs of the
Kaiser and the Crown Prince hung on the walls
above a glass filled with war trophies. With a


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM
93
horrible sickness at heart I recognized amongst
other emblems a glengarry with a silver badge
and a British steel helmet with a gaping hole
through the crown. Then I remembered I was
in the region of the VIIth Corps, which sup-
plies some of our toughest opponents on the
Western front.
Conversation was polite and perfunctory.
“It is on occasions such as these," said the
lame officer, “that one recognizes how our
brothers overseas are helping the German
cause."
“Your work must be extraordinarily inter-
esting,” observed one of the dug-outs.
“All your difficulties are now over,” said the
Major, much in the manner of the chorus of a
Greek play. “You will be in Berlin to-night,
where your labors will be doubtless rewarded.
American friends of Germany are not popular
in London, I should imagine!”
I murmured: “Hardly."
“You must possess infinite tact to have
aroused no suspicion," said the Major.
“That depends," I said.
“Pardon me," replied the Major, in whom I
began to recognize all the signs of an unmiti-
gated gossip, “I know something of the im-
portance of your mission. I speak amongst
ourselves, is it not so, gentlemen? There were


94 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
special orders about you from the Corps Com-
mand at Münster. Your special has been wait-
ing for you here for four days. The gentleman
who came to meet you has been in a fever of
expectation. He had already left the station
this morning when ... when I met you. I
sent word for him to pick you up here."
The plot was thickening. I most certainly
was a personage of note.
“What part of America do you come from,
Mr. Semlin?” said a voice in perfect English
from the corner. The one-armed officer was
speaking.
"From Brooklyn," I said stoutly, though my
heart seemed turned to ice with the shock of
hearing my own tongue.
“You have no accent," the other replied
suavely.
“Some Americans," I retorted sententiously,
“would regard that as a compliment. Not all
Americans talk through their noses any more
than we all chew or spit in public."
“I know," said the young man. “I was
brought up there!”
We were surrounded by smiling faces. This
officer who could speak English was evidently
regarded as a bit of a wag by his comrades. I
seized the opportunity to give them in German
a humorous description of my simplicity in ex-
O
as


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM
95
plaining to a man brought up in the United
States that all Americans were not the carica-
tures depicted in the European comic press.
There was a roar of laughter from the room.
“Ach, dieser Schmalz!” guffawed the Major, .
beating his thigh in ecstasy. “Kolossal!"
echoed one of the dug-outs. The lame man
smiled wanly and said it was "incredible how
humorous Schmalz could be.”
I had hoped that the conversation might now
be carried on again in German. Nothing of the
kind. The room leant back in its chairs, as if
expecting the fun to go on.
It did.
“You get your clothes in London," the young
officer said.
He was a trimly built young man, very pale
from recent illness, with flaxen hair and a
bright, bold blue eye-the eye of a fighter. His
left sleeve was empty and was fastened across
his tunic, in a button-hole of which was twisted
the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross.
"Generally," I answered shortly, “when I
go to England. Clothes are cheaper in Lon-
don.”
"You must have a good ear for languages,”
Schmalz continued; "you speak German like a
German and English . .," he paused appre-
ciably, “... like an Englishman."


96
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
I felt horribly nervous. This young man
never took his eyes off me: he had been staring
at me ever since I had entered the room. His
manner was perfectly calm and suave.
Still I kept my end up very creditably, I
think.
“And not a bad accomplishment, either," I
said, smiling brightly, “if one has to visit Lon-
don in war-time."
Schmalz smiled back with perfect courtesy.
But he continued to stare relentlessly at me. I
felt scared.
“What is Schmalz jabbering about now?"
said one of the dug-outs. I translated for the
benefit of the company. My résumé gave the
dug-out who had spoken the opportunity for
launching out on an interminable anecdote
about an ulster he had bought on a holiday at
Brighton. The story lasted until the white-
gloved orderly came and announced that “a
gentleman” was there, asking for the Herr
Major.
"That'll be your man,” exclaimed the Major,
starting up-I noticed he made no attempt to
bring the stranger in. “Come, let us go to him!”
I stood up and took my leave. Schmalz came
to the door of the anteroom with us.
“You are going to Berlin?” he asked.
“Yes." I replied.


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 97
“Where shall you be staying?” he asked
again.
“Oh, probably at the Adlon!”
“I myself shall be in Berlin next week for
my medical examination, and perhaps we may
meet again. I should much like to talk more
with you about America ... and London. We
must have mutual acquaintances.”.
I murmured something about being only too
glad, at the same time making a mental note
to get out of Berlin as soon as I conveniently
could.


CHAPTER VIII
I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT AND MEET HIS EMPLOYER
S we went down the staircase, the Major
whispered to me:
“I don't think your man wished me
to know his name, for he did not introduce
himself when he arrived and he does not come
to our Casino. But I know him for all that:
it is the young Count von Boden, of the Uhlans
of the Guard: his father, the General, is one of
the Emperor's aides-de-camp: he was, for a
time, tutor to the Crown Prince.”
A motor-car stood at the door, in it a young
man in a gray-blue military great-coat and a
flat cap with a pink band round it. He sprang
out as we appeared. His manner was most em-
pressé. He completely ignored my companion.
“I am extremely glad to see you, Herr Dok-
tor," he said. “You are most anxiously ex-
pected. I must present my apologies for not
being at the station to welcome you, but, appar-
08


100 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
with my things, the other with von Boden's,
luggage and fur pélisse. The platforms were
now deserted save for sentries: all life at this
dreary frontier station seemed to die with the
passing of the mail train.
I could not help noticing, after we had left
the car and were strolling up and down the
platform waiting for the special, that my com- y
panion kept casting furtive glances at my feet.
I looked down at my boots: they wanted
brushing, certainly, but otherwise I could see
nothing wrong with them. They were brown,
it is true, and I reflected that the German man
about town has a way of regulating his tastes
in footgear by the calendar, and that brown
boots are seldom worn in Germany after Sep-
tember 1st.
Our special came in . . . an engine and
tender, a brakesman's van, a single carriage
and a guard's van. The stationmaster bid us
a most ceremonious adieu, and the guard, cap
in hand, helped me into the train. V
It was a Pullman car in which I found my-
self, with comfortable arm-chairs and small
tables. One of the orderlies was laying the
table for luncheon, and here, presently, the
young Count and I ate a meal, which, save for
the inevitable "Kriegsbrod," showed few signs
of the stringency of the British blockade. But


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 101
lion.
by this time I had fully realized that, for some
unknown reason, no pains were spared to do
me honor, so probably the fare was something
out of the common.
My companion was a bright, amusing fellow
and delightfully typical of his class. He had
seen a year's service with the cavalry on the
Eastern front, had been seriously wounded and
was now attached to the General Staff in
Berlin in what I judged to be a decorative
rather than a useful capacity, for, apart from
what he had learnt in his own campaigning he
seemed singularly ignorant of the development
of the military situation. Particularly, his ig-
norance of conditions on the Western front was
supreme. He was full to the brim with the most
extraordinary fables about the British. He
solemnly assured me, for example on the faith
of a friend of his who had seen them—that Jap-
anese were fighting with the English in France,
dressed as Highlanders—his friend had heard
these Asiatic Scotsmen talking Japanese, he
declared. I thought of the Gaelic-speaking bat-
talions of the Camerons and could hardly sup-
press a smile.
Young von Boden was superbly contempt-
uous of the officers of the obscure and much
reduced infantry battalion doing garrison duty
at Goch, the frontier station we had just left,


102 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
whereas he was careful to explain to me-he
had spent four days of unrelieved boredom,
waiting for me.
“Of course, in war time we are a united
army and all that,” he observed unsophisti-
catedly, “but none of these fellows at Goch was
a fit companion for a dashing cavalry officer.
They were a dull lot. I wouldn't go near the
Casino. I met some of them at the hotel onė
evening. That was enough for me. Why, only
one of them knew anything at all about Berlin,
and that was the lame fellow. Now, there is
one thing we learn in the cavalry. ..."
But I had ceased to listen. In his irrespon-
sible chatter the boy used a word that struck
a harsh note which went jarring through my
brain. He had mentioned "the lame fellow,”
using a German word “der Stelze.” In a flash
I saw before me again that scene in the squalid
bedroom in the Vos in't Tuintje-the candle
guttering in the draught, the livid corpse on
the floor and that sinister woman crying out:
“Der Stelze has power, he has authority, he
can make and unmake men!”
The mind has unaccountable lapses. The
phrase had slipped out of my German vocabu-
lary. I had not even recognized it until the boy
had rapped it out in a context with which I was
familiar and then it had come back. With it, it


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 103
brought that tableau in the dimly lit room, but
also another-a picture of a vast and massive
man, swarthy and sinister, with a clubfoot,
limping heavily after Karl, the waiter, on the
platform at Rotterdam.
That, then, was why the young lieutenant had
glanced down at my feet at the station at Goch.
The messenger he had come to meet, the bearer
of the document, the man of power and author-
ity, was clubfooted, and I was he!
But seeing I was free of any physical de-
formity, to say nothing of the fact that I in no
way resembled the clubfooted man I had seen
on the platform at Rotterdam, why had the
young lieutenant accepted me so readily?
I hazarded the reason to be that he had orders
to meet a person who had not been further des-
ignated to him except that he would arrive by
a certain train. The Major at the station would
be responsible for establishing my bona fides.
Once that officer had turned me over to the
emissary, the latter's sole responsibility con-
sisted in conducting me to the unknown goal to
which the special train was rapidly bearing us.
Such are the marvels of discipline!
My companion was, indeed, the model of dis-
cretion in everything touching myself and my
business. Curiosity about your neighbor's af-
fairs is a cardinal German failing, yet the Count


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
105
had the other half? Surely Clubfoot. ...
Clubfoot who was to have called at the hotel
that morning to receive what I had brought
from England. Perhaps, after all, my random
declaration to the hotel-keeper had not been so
far wrong; Clubfoot wanted to take the whole
document to Berlin and reap all the laurels at
the cost of half the danger and labor. That
would explain his present silence. He suspect-
ed Semlin of treachery, not to the common
cause, but to him!
It looked as if I might have a free run until
Clubfoot could reach Berlin. That, unless he
also took a special, could not be until the next
evening at earliest. But, more redoubtable
than a meeting with the man of power and au-
thority, hung over me, an ever-present night-
mare, the interview which I felt awaited me at
the end of my present journey ... the inter-
view at which I must render an account of my
mission.
Evening was falling as we ran through the
inhospitable region of sand and water and pine
that engirdles Berlin. We glided at diminished
speed through the trim suburbs, skirted the
city, on whose tall buildings the electric sky-
signs were already beginning to twinkle, crashed
heavily over a vast network of metals at some
great terminus, then tore off again into the


106 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
gathering darkness. In a little, we slowed
down again. We were running through wooded
country. From the darkness ahead a lantern
waved at us and the train stopped with a jerk
at a little wayside station, a tiny box of an
affair. A tall, solid figure, wearing a spiked
helmet and grey military great-coat, stood in
solitary grandeur in the center of the little
platform, the wavering rays of a flickering gas
lamp reflected in his brilliantly polished top-
boots.
“Here we are at last!” said my companion.
I stepped out to meet my fate.
The young lieutenant was rigid at the salute
before the figure on the platform.
I heard the end of a sentence as I alighted
“... the gentleman I was to meet, Excel-
lency!”
The other looked at me. He was a big man
with a crimson face. He made no attempt at
greeting, but said in a hoarse voice: “Have
the goodness to come with me. The orderlies
will attend to your things." And, with clink-
ing spurs, he strode out through some big kind
of anteroom, swathed in wrappings, into a yard
beyond, where a big limousine was throbbing
gently.


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
107
He stood aside to let me get in, then mounted
himself, followed, rather to my surprise, by
the young Count, whose responsibility for my-
self had ended, I imagined, on “delivering the
goods.” My surprise was of short duration, for
once in the car the young Uhlan dropped all
the formality he had displayed on the platform
and addressed the elder officer as “papa."
This, then, was old General von Boden, of
whom the Major had spoken, Aide-de-Camp to
the Kaiser and formerly tutor to the Crown
Prince.
Father and son chatted in a desultory fashion
across the car, and I took the opportunity of
studying the old gentleman. His face was of
the most prodigious purple hue, and so highly
polished that it continually caught the reflection
of the small electric lamp in the roof. Huge
gold spectacles with glasses so thick that they
distorted his eyes, straddled a great beak-like
nose. He had doffed his helmet and was mop-
ping his brow, and I saw a high perfectly bald
dome-like head, brilliantly polished and almost
as red as his face. He was clean shaven and
by no means young, for the flesh hung in bags
about his face. Long years of the habit of com-
mand had left their mark in an imperiousness
of manner which might easily yield to ruthless-
ness I judged.


108 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“I thought I should have had orders before
I left the Villa,” the General said to his son,
“then you could have gone straight there. I
suppose he means to see him here: that is why
he wanted him brought to the Villa. But he's
always the same: he never can make up his
mind.” And he grunted.
“Perhaps there will be something waiting at
home," he added in his hoarse barrack-yard
voice.
We drove through a white gate into a little
drive which brought us up in front of a long,
low villa. Neither father nor son had opened
their lips to me during the drive from the sta-
tion and I had not ventured to put a question
to either of them, but I knew we were in Pots-
dam. The little station in the woods was Wild-
Park, I suspected, the private station used by
the Emperor on his frequent journeys and situ-
ated in the grounds of the New Palace. All the
officials of the Prussian Court have villas at
Potsdam, though why I had been brought there
in connection with an affair that must surely
rather interest the Wilhelm-Strasse or the Po-
lice Presidency was more than I could fathom.
There was a frightful scene in the hall. With-
out any warning the General turned on the
orderly who had opened the door and screamed
abuse at him. “Camel! Ox! Sheep's-head!"


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT : 109
be roared, his face and shining pate deepening
their vermilion hue. “Do I give orders that
they shall be forgotten? What do you mean?
You ass. ..." He put his white-gloved
hands on the man's shoulders and shook him
until the fellow's teeth must have rattled in his
head. The orderly, white to the lips, hung limp
in the old man's grasp, muttering apologies :
“Ach! Excellenz! Excellenz will excuse
me...."
It was a revolting spectacle, but it did not
make the least impression on the son, who, put-
ting down his cap and great-coat and unhook-
ing his sword, led me into a kind of study.
"These orderlies are such thickheads!” he said.
“Rudi! Rudi!” a hoarse, strident voice
screamed from the hall. The lieutenant ran
out.
“You've got to take the fellow to Berlin to-
night. The message was here all the time—that
numskull Heinrich forgot it. And we've got
to keep the fellow here till then! An outrage,
having the house used as a barrack for a ras-
cally detective!” Thus much I heard, as the
door had been left open. Then it closed and I
heard no more.
As I had heard this much, there was a certain
irony in the invitation to dinner subsequently
conveyed to me by the young Uhlan. There


110 о
was
THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
was nothing for it but to accept. I knew I was
caught deep in the meshes of Prussian disci-
pline, every one had his orders and blindly car-
ried them out, from the garrulous Major on the
frontier to this preposterous Exzellenz, this Im-
perial aide-de-camp of Potsdam. I was already
a tiny cog in a great machine. I should have
to revolve or be crushed.
His Excellency left me in no doubt on this
point. When I was ushered into his study, after
a much-needed wash and a shave, he received
me standing and said point-blank: “Your ord-
ers are to stay here until ten o'clock to-night,
when you will be taken to Berlin by Lieutenant
Count von Boden. I don't know you, I don't
know your business, but I have received certain
orders concerning you which I intend to carry
out. For that reason you will dine with us here.
After you have seen the person to whom you
are to be taken to-night, Lieutenant Count von
Boden will accompany you to the railway sta-
tion at Spandau, where a special train will be
in readiness in which he will conduct you back
to the frontier. I wish you clearly to under-
stand that the Lieutenant is responsible for see-
ing these orders carried out and will use all
means to that end. Have I made myself
clear ”
The old man's manner was indescribably


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
III
threatening. “This is the machine we are out
to smash," I had said to myself when I saw him
savaging his servant in the hall and I repeated
the phrase to myself now. But to the General
I said: “Perfectly, Your Excellency!”
"Then let us go to dinner," said the General,
It was a nightmare meal. A faded and
shrunken female, to whom I was not introduced
-some kind of relative who kept house for the
General, I supposed-was the only other person
present. She never opened her lips save, with
eyes glazed with terror, to give some whispered
instruction to the orderly anent the General's
food or wine. We dined in a depressing room
with dark brown wall-paper decorated with
dusty stags' antlers, an enormous green-tiled
stove dominating everything. The General and
his son ate solidly through the courses while the
lady pecked furtively at her plate. As for my-
self I could not eat for sheer fright. Every
nerve in my body was vibrating at the thought
of the evening before me. If I could not avoid
the interview, I was resolutely determined to
give Master von Boden the slip rather than re-
turn to the frontier empty-handed. I had not
braved all these perils to be packed off home
without, at least, making an attempt to find
Francis. Besides, I meant if I could to get the
other half of that document.


112 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
There was some quite excellent Rhine wine,
and I drank plenty of it. So did the General,
with the result that, when the veins starting
purple from his temples proclaimed that he had
eaten to repletion, his temper seemed to have
improved. He unbent sufficiently to present me
with quite the worst cigar I have ever smoked.
I smoked it in silence whilst father and son
talked shop. The female had faded away. Both
men, I found to my surprise, were furious and
bitter opponents of Hindenburg, as I have since
learned most of the old school of the Prussian
Army are. They spoke little of England: their
thoughts seemed to be centered on Russia as
the arch-enemy. They pinned their faith on
Falkenhayn and Mackensen. They had no
words strong enough in their denunciation of
Hindenburg, whom they always referred to as
“the Drunkard”..."der Säufer." Nor were
they sparing of criticism of what they called
the Kaiser's “weakness" in letting him rise to
power.
The humming of a car outside broke up our
gathering. Remembering that I was but a hum.
ble servant before this great military luminary,
I thanked the General with due servility for
his hospitality. Then the Count and I went out
to the car and presently drove forth into the
night.


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
113
We entered Berlin from the west, as it
seemed to me, but then struck off in a southerly
direction and were soon in the commercial quar-
ter of the city, all but deserted at that hour,
save for the trams. Then I caught a glimpse of
lamps reflected in water, and the next moment
the car had stopped on a bridge over a canal or
river. My companion sprang out and hurried
me to a small gate in an iron railing enclosing
a vast edifice looming black in the night, while
the car moved off into the darkness.
The gate was open. Half a dozen yards from
it was a small, slender tower with a pointed roof
jutting out from the corner of the building. In
the tower was a door which yielded easily to my
companion's vigorous push as a clock some-
where within the building beat a double stroke
-half-past ten.
The door led into a little vestibule brilliantly
lit with electric light. There a man was waiting,
a fine, upstanding bearded fellow in a kind of
green hunting costume.
“So, Payer!" said the young Uhlan. “Here
is the gentleman. I shall be at the west en-
trance afterwards. You will bring him down
yourself to the car.”
“Jawohl, Herr Graf!” answered the man in
green, and the lieutenant vanished through the
door into the night.
**!!


114 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
A terrifying, an incredible suspicion that had
overwhelmed me directly I stepped out of the
car now came surging through my brain. That
vast, black edifice, that slender tower at the cor-
ner—did I not know them?
Mechanically, I followed the man in green.
My suspicions deepened with every step. In a
little, they became certainty. Up a shallow and
winding stair, along a long and broad corridor,
hung with rich tapestries, the polished parquet
glistening faintly in the dim light, through
splendid suites of gilded apartments with old
pictures and splendid furniture . .. here a
lackey with powdered hair yawning on a land-
ing, there a sentry in field-grey immobile before
a door ... I was in the Berlin Schloss.
The Castle seemed to sleep. A hushed silence
lay over all. Everywhere lights were dim, stair-
cases wound down into emptiness, corridors
stretched away into dusky solitude. Now and
then an attendant in evening dress tiptoed past
us or an officer vanished round a corner, noise-
lessly save for a faint clink of spurs.
Thus we traversed, as it seemed to me, miles
of silence and of twilight, and all the time my
blood hammered at my temples and my throat
grew dry as I thought of the ordeal that stood
before me. To whom was I thus bidden, sec-
retly, in the night?


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
115
We were in a broad and pleasant passage
now, panelled in cheerful light brown oak with
red hangings. After the desolation of the
State apartments, this comfortable corridor had
at least the appearance of leading to the habita-
tion of man. A giant trooper in field-gray with
a curious silver gorget suspended round his
neck by a chain paced up and down the passage,
his jackboots making no sound upon the soft,
thick carpet with which the floor was covered.
The man in green stopped at the door.
Holding up a warning hand to me, he bent his
head and listened. There was a moment of ab-
solute silence. Not a sound was to be heard
in the whole Castle. Then the man in green
knocked and was admitted, leaving me outside.
Á moment later, the door swung open again.
A tall, elegant man with grey hair and that in-
definite air of good breeding that you find in
every man who has spent a life at court, came
out hurriedly. He looked pale and harassed.
On seeing me, he stopped short.
"Dr. Grundt? Where is Dr. Grundt?” he
asked and his eyes dropped to my feet. He
started and raised them to my face.
The trooper had drifted out of earshot. I
could see him, immobile as a statue, standing at
the end of the corridor. Except for him and us,
the passage was deserted.


116 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Again the elderly man spoke and his voice
betrayed his anxiety.
"Who are you?” he asked almost in a whis-
per. “What have you done with Grundt? Why
has he not come?”
Boldly I took the plunge.
“I am Semlin,” I said.
“Semlin," echoed the other, "-ah yes! the
Embassy in Washington wrote about you—but
Grundt was to have come. ..."
“Listen,” I said, “Grundt could not come.
We had to separate and he sent me on
ahead. ..."
“But ... but ..."-the man was stam-
mering now in his anxiety-"... you suc-
ceeded?"
I nodded.,
He heaved a sign of relief.
“It will be awkward, very awkward, this
change in the arrangements," he said. “You
will have to explain everything to him, every-
thing. Wait there an instant."
He darted back into the room.
Once more I stood and waited in that silent
place, so restful and so still that one felt one-.
self in a world far removed from the angry
strife of nations. And I wondered if my inter-
view--the meeting I had so much dreaded
was at an end.


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT
117
“Pst, Pst!” The elderly man stood at the
open door.
He led me through a room, a cosy place, smel-
ling pleasantly of leather furniture, to a door.
He opened it, revealing across a narrow thres-
hold another door. On this he knocked.
“Herein!” cried a voice-a harsh, metallic
voice.
My companion turned the handle and, open-
ing the door, thrust me into the room. The door
closed behind me.
I found myself facing the Emperor.


CHAPTER IX
I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE WHO LEADS ML
TO A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE
TE stood in the center of the room, facing
the door, his legs, straddled apart,
planted firmly on the ground, one hand
behind his back, the other, withered and useless
like the rest of the arm, thrust into the side
pocket of his tunic. He wore a perfectly plain
undress uniform of field-gray, and the unusual
simplicity of his dress, coupled with the fact
that he was bare-headed, rendered him so un-
like his conventional portraits in the full pan-
oply of war that I doubt if I should have recog-
nized him-paradoxical as it may seem—but for
the havoc depicted in every lineament of those
once so familiar features.
Only one man in the world to-day could look
like that. Only one man in the world to-day
could show, by the ravage in his face, the
appalling weight of responsibility slowly crush-
118


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 119
ing one of the most vigorous and resilient per-
sonalities in Europe. His figure, erstwhile
erect and well-knit, seemed to have shrunk, and
his withered arm, unnaturally looped away into
his pocket, assumed a prominence that lent
something sinister to that forbidding gray and
harassed face.
His head was sunk forward on his breast.
His face, always intensely sallow, almost Italian
in its olive tint, was livid. All its alertness was
gone; the features seemed to have collapsed,
and the flesh hung flabbily, bulging in deep
pouches under the eyes and in loose folds at,
the corners of the mouth. His head was grizzled
an iron-gray but the hair at the temples was
white as driven snow. Only his eyes were un-
changed. They were the same gray, steely eyes,
restless, shifting, unreliable, mirrors of the
man's impulsive, wayward and fickle mind.
He lowered at me. His brow was furrowed
and his eyes flashed malice. In the brief instant
in which I gazed at him I thought of a phrase a
friend had used after seeing the Kaiser in one
of his angry moods—"His icy, black look."
I was so taken aback at finding myself in the
Emperor's presence that I forgot my part and
remained staring in stupefaction at the appari-
tion. The other was seemingly too busy with:
kis thoughts to notice my forgetfulness, for he


120 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
spoke at once, imperiously, in the harsh staccato
of a command.
"What is this I hear?” he said. “Why has
not Grundt come? What are you doing here?”
By this time I had elaborated the fable I had
begun to tell in the corridor without. I had it
ready now: it was thin, but it must suffice.
“If your Majesty will allow me, I will ex-
plain,” I said. The Emperor was rocking him-
self to and fro, in nervous irritability, on his
feet. His eyes were never steady for an in-
stant: now they searched my face, now they fell
to the floor, now they scanned the ceiling.
“Dr. Grundt and I succeeded in our quest,
dangerous though it was. As your Majesty is
aware, the. . . the ... the object had been
divided. ..."
“Yes, yes, I know! Go on!” the other said,
pausing for a moment in his rocking.
“I was to have left England first with my
portion. I could not get away. Everyone is
searched for letters and papers at Tilbury. I
devised a scheme and we tested it, but it failed.”
“How? It failed ?" the other cried.
“With no detriment to the success of our
mission, Your Majesty."
“Explain! What was your stratagem?"
“I cut a piece of the lining from a hand-bag
and in this I wrapped a perfectly harmless leta


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 121
al
ter addressed to an English shipping agent in
Rotterdam. I then pasted the fragment of the
lining back in its place in the bottom of the bag.
Grundt gave the bag to one of our number as an
experiment to see if it would elude the vigilance
of the English police.”
A light of interest was growing in the Em-
peror's manner, banishing his ill-temper. Any-
thing novel always appealed to him.
“Well?” he said.
“The ruse was detected, the letter was found
and our man was fined twenty pounds at the
police court. It was then that Dr. Grundt de-
cided to send me. ..."
“You've got it with you?" the other ex-
claimed eagerly.
“No, Your Majesty," I said. “I had no
means of bringing it away. Dr. Grundt, on the
other hand ..." And I doubled up my leg
and touched my foot.
The Emperor stared at me and the furrow
reappeared between his eyes. Then a smile
broke out on his face, a warm, attractive smile,
like sunshine after rain, and he burst into a
regular guffaw. I knew His Majesty's weak-
ness for jokes at the expense of the physical
deformities of others, but I had scarcely dared
to hope that my subtle reference to Grundt's
clubfoot as a hiding place for compromising


122 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
window at the nicht and left in
th its litter of
papers would have had such a success. For the
Kaiser fairly revelled in the idea and laughed
loud and long, his sides fairly shaking.
“Ach, der Stelze! Excellent! Excellent!”
he cried. “Plessen, come and hear how we've
diddled the Engländer again!”
We.were in a long room, lofty, with a great
window at the far end, where the room seemed
to run to the right and left in the shape of a
T. From the big writing-desk with its litter of
photographs in heavy silver frames, the little
bronze busts of the Empress, the water-color
sea-scapes and other little touches, I judged
this to be the Emperor's study.
At the monarch's call, a white-haired officer
emerged from the further end of the room, that
part which was hidden from my view.
The Kaiser put his hand on his shoulder.
“A great joke, Plessen!” he said, chuckling.
Then, to me:
"Tell it again!"
I had warmed to my work now. I gave as
drily humorous an account as I could of Dr.
Grundt, fat and massive and podgy, hobbling
on board the steamer at Tilbury, under the
noses of the British police, with the document
stowed away in his boot.
The Kaiser punctuated my story with gusty
guffaws, and emphasized the fun of the dénoue-


124. THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
in a voice from which all mirth had vanished,
in accents of gloom:
“At this hour, Plessen? If things have again
gone wrong on the Somme!”
An officer came in quickly, rigid with a frozen
face, helmet on head, portfolio under his arm.
The Kaiser walked the length of the room to
his desk and sat down. Plessen and the other
followed him. I remained where I was. They
seemed to have forgotten all about me.
A murmur rose from the desk. The officer
was delivering his report. Then the Kaiser
seemed to question him, for I heard his hard,
metallic voice:
“Contalmaison ... Trones Wood . . . heavy
losses . . . forced back ... terrific artillery
fire ..." were words that reached me. The
Kaiser's voice rose on a high note of irritabil-
ity. Suddenly he dashed the papers on the desk
from him and exclaimed:
“It is outrageous! I'll break him! Not
another man shall he have if I must go myself
and teach his men their duty!"
Plessen hurriedly left the desk and came to
me. His old face was white and his hands were
shaking.
“Get out of here!” he said to me in a fierce
undertone. “Wait outside and I will see you
later!" Still, from the desk, resounded that


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 125
harsh, strident voice, running on in an ascend-
ing scale, pouring forth a foaming torrent of
menace.
I had often heard of the sudden paroxysms
of fury from which the Kaiser was said to suf-
fer of recent years, but never in my wildest day-
dreams did I ever imagine I should assist at
one.
Gladly enough did I exchange the highly
charged electrical atmosphere of the Imperial
study for the repose of the quiet corridor. Its
perfect tranquillity was as balm to my quivering
nerves. Of the man in green nothing was to be
seen. Only the trooper continued his silent
vigil.
Again I acted on impulse. I was wearing my
grass-green raincoat, my hat I carried in my
hand. I might therefore easily pass for one
just leaving the Castle. Without hesitation, I
turned to the left, the way I had come, and
plunged once more into the labyrinth of gal-
leries and corridors and landings by which the
man in green had led me. I very soon lost my-
self, so I decided to descend the next staircase
I should come to. I followed this plan and went
down a broad flight of stairs, at the foot of
which I found a night porter, clad in a vast
overcoat bedizened with eagles and seated on a
stool, reading a newspaper.


126 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
He stopped me and asked me my business. I
told him I was coming from the Emperor's pri-
vate apartments, whereupon he demanded my
pass. I showed him my badge which entirely
satisfied him, though he muttered something
about "new faces” and not having seen me be-
fore. I asked him for the way out. He said
that at the end of the gallery I should come to
the west entrance. I felt I had had a narrow
squeak of running into my mentor outside. I
told the man I wanted the other entrance. . . .
I had my car there.
“You mean the south entrance?” he asked,
and proceeded to give me directions which
brought me, without further difficulty, out upon
the open space in front of the great equestrian
statue of the Emperor William I.
It was a clear, starry night and I heaved a
sigh of relief as I saw the Schloss-Platz glitter-
ing in the cold light of the arc lamps. So press-
ing had been the danger threatening me that the
atmosphere of the Castle seemed stifling in com-
parison with the keen night air. A new confi-
dence filled my veins as I strode along, though
the perils to which I was advancing were not a
whit less than those I had just escaped. For I
had burnt my boats. My disappearance from
the Castle must surely arouse suspicion and it
was only a matter of hours for the hue and cry


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 127
to be raised after me. At best it might be de-
layed until Clubfoot presented himself at the
Castle.
I could not remain in Berlin, that was clear.
My American passport was not in order, and if
I were to fall back upon my silver badge, I
should instantly come into contact with the po-
lice with all kinds of unwelcome consequences.
No, I must get out of Berlin at all costs. Well
away from the capital, I might possibly utilize
my silver badge or by its help procure identity
papers that would give me a status of some
kind.
But Francis? Bafiled as I was by that ob-
scure jingle of German, something seemed to
tell me that it was a message from my brother.
It was dated from Berlin, and I felt that the so-
lution of the riddle, if riddle it were, must be
found here.
I had reached Unter den Linden. I entered
a café and ordered a glass of beer. The place
was a blaze of light and dense with a blue cloud
of tobacco smoke. A noisy band was crashing,
out popular tunes and there was a loud buzz of
conversation rising from every table. It was
all very cheerful and the noise and the bustle
did me good after the strain of the night.
I drew from my pocket the slip of paper I
had bad from Dicky and fell to scanning it


128 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
again. I had not been twelve hours in Germany,
but already I was conscious that, for anyone
acting a part, let anything go wrong with his
identity papers and he could never leave the
country. If he were lucky, he might lie doggo;
but there was no other course.
Supposing, then, that this had happened to
Francis (as, indeed, Red Tabs had hinted to me
was the case) what course would he adopt? He
would try and smuggle out a message announc-
ing his plight. Yes, I think that is what I my-
self would do in similar circumstances.
Well, I would accept this as a message from
Francis. Now to study it once more.
O Eichenholz! 0 Eichenholz!
Wie leer sind deine Blätter.
Wie Achiles in dem Zelte.
Wo zweie sich zanken
Erfreut sich der Dritte.
The message fell into three parts, each con-
sisting of a phrase. The first phrase might cer-
tainly be a warning that Francis had failed in
his mission.
“O Okewood! how empty are thy leaves!”
: What, then, of the other two phrases?
They were short and simple. Whatever mes-
sage they conveyed, it could not be a lengthy
one. Nor was it likely that they contained a
report of Francis' mission to Germany, what-


130 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
It was discouraging work, but I went back to
the paper again. The only other word likely to
serve as a street remaining in the puzzle was
"Zelt."
“Wie Achiles in dem Zelte."
Wearily I opened the directory at the “Z's."
There, staring me in the face, I found the
street called “In den Zelten."
I had struck the trail at last.
In den Zelten, I discovered, on referring to
the directory again, derived its name "In the
Tents," from the fact that in earlier days a
number of open-air beer-gardens and booths
had occupied the site which faces the northern
side of the Tiergarten. It was not a long street.
The directory showed but fifty-six houses,
several of which, I noticed, were still beer-
gardens. It appeared to be a fashionable
thoroughfare, for most of the occupants were
titled people. No. 3, I was interested to see,
was still noted as the Berlin office of The Times.
The last phrase in the message decidedly gave
the number. Two must refer to the number of
the house: third to the number of the floor,
since practically all dwelling-houses in Berlin
are divided off into flats.
As for the “Achiles," I gave it up.
I looked at my watch. It was twenty past
eleven: too late to begin my search that night.


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 131
Then I suddenly realized how utterly exhausted
I was. I had been two nights out of bed with-
out sleep, for I had sat up on deck crossing over
to Holland, and the succession of adventures
that had befallen me since I left London had
driven all thought of weariness from my mind.
But now came the reaction and I felt myself
yearning for a hot bath and for a nice comfort-
able bed. To go to an hotel at that hour of
night, without luggage and with an American
passport not in order, would be to court dis-
aster. It looked as though I should have to hang
about the cafés and night restaurants until mor-
ning, investigate the clue of the street called In
den Zelten, and then get away from Berlin as
fast as ever I could.
But my head was nodding with drowsiness. I
must pull myself together. I decided I would
have some black coffee, and I raised my eyes to
find the waiter. They fell upon the pale face
and elegant figure of the one-armed officer I had
met at the Casino at Goch ... the young lieu-
tenant they had called Schmalz.
He had just entered the café and was standing
at the door, looking about him. I felt a sudden
pang of uneasiness at the sight of him, for I
remembered his cross-examination of me at
Goch. But I could not escape without paying
my bill; besides, he blocked the way.


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 135
It was a regular palace of a place, with a
splendid vestibule with walls and pavement of
different-hued marbles, with palm trees over-
shadowing a little fountain tinkling in a jade
basin, with servants in gaudy liveries. The re-
ception clerk overwhelmed me with the cordial-
ity of his welcome to my companion and “the
American gentleman,” and after a certain
amount of coquettish protestations about the
difficulty of providing accommodation, allotted
us a double suite on the entresol, consisting of
two bedrooms with a common sitting-room and
bathroom.
In his immaculate evening dress, he was a
Beau Brummell among hotel clerks, that man.
The luggage of the American gentleman should
be fetched in the morning. The gentleman's
papers? There was no hurry: the Herr
Leutnant would explain to his friend the forms
that had to be filled in: they could be given to
the waiter in the morning. Would the gentle-
men take anything before retiring? A whisky-
soda-ah! whisky was getting scarce. No?
Nothing? He had the honor to wish the gentle-
men pleasant repose.
We went to the lift in procession, Beau
Brummell in front, then a waiter, then ourselves
and the gold-braided hall porter bringing up the
rear. One or two people were sitting in the


136 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
lounge, attended by a platoon of waiters. The
whole place gave an impression of wealth and
luxury altogether out of keeping with British
ideas of the stringency of life in Germany under
the British blockade. I could not help reflecting
to myself mournfully that Germany did not
seem to feel the pinch very much.
At the lift the procession bowed itself away.
and we went up in charge of the liftman, a
gorgeous individual who looked like one of the
Pope's Swiss Guards. We reached the entresol
in an instant. The Lieutenant led the way
along the dimly lighted corridor.
“Here is the sitting-room,” he said, opening
a door. “This is my room, this the bathroom,
and this,” he flung open the fourth door, "is
your room!”
He stood aside to let me pass. The lights in
the room were full on. In an armchair a big
man in an overcoat was sitting.
He had a heavy square face and a clubfoot.


CHAPTER X
A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT
WALKED boldly into the room. All sense
of fear had vanished in a wave of anger
that swept over me, anger with myself for
letting myself be trapped, anger with my com-
panion for his treachery.
Schmalz stood at my elbow with a smile full
of malice on his face.
"There now!” he cried, "you see, you are
among friends! Am I not thoughtful to have
prepared this little surprise for you? See, I
have brought you to the one man you have
crossed so many hundreds of miles of ocean to
see! Herr Doktor! this is Dr. Semlin. Dr. Sem-
lin: Dr. Grundt.”
The other had by now heaved his unwieldy
frame from the chair.
“Dr. Semlin?” he said, in a perfectly emo-
tionless voice, une voix blanche, as the French
say, “this is an unexpected pleasure. I never
137


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 139
“Schmalz, dear friend,” Clubfoot exclaimed
with a sigh of regret, “much as I should like
... I am indeed truly sorry that we should be
deprived of your company, but I cannot contest
the profound accuracy of our friend's remark.
If you could go to the sitting-room for a few
minutes. ...".
The young lieutenant flushed angrily.
“If you prefer my room to my company ...
by all means," he retorted gruffly, “but I think,
in the circumstances, that I shall go to bed."
And he turned on his heel and walked out of
the room, shutting the door with rather more
force than was necessary, I thought.
Clubfoot sighed.
“Ah! youth! youth!” he cried, “the same
impetuous youth that is at this very moment
hacking out for Germany a world empire amidst
the nations in arms. A wonderful race, a race
of giants, our German youth, Herr Doktor ...
the mainspring of our great German machine-
as they find who resist it. A glass of wine!”
The man's speech and manner boded ill for
me, I felt. I would have infinitely preferred
violent language and open threats to the subtle
menace that lay .concealed beneath all this
suavity.
“You smoke?” queried Clubfoot. "No!"-
he held up his hand to stop me as I was reaching


140 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
for my cigarette case, “you shall have a cigar-
not one of our poor German Hamburgers, but a
fine Havana cigar given me by a member of the
English Privy Council. You stare! Aha! I
repeat, by a member of the English Privy Coun-
cil, to me, the Boche, the barbarian, the Hun!
No hole-and-corner work for the old doctor.
Der Stelze may be lame, Clubfoot may be past
his work, but when he travels en mission, he
travels en prince, the man of wealth and sub-
stance. There is none too high to do him honor,
to listen to his views on poor, misguided Ger-
many, the land of thinkers sold into bondage to
the militarists! Bah! the fools!”
He snarled venomously. This man was be-
ginning to interest me. His rapid change of
moods was fascinating, now the kindly philos-
opher, now the Teuton braggart, now the Hun
incorporate. As he limped across the room to
fetch his cigar-case from the mantelpiece, I
studied him.
He was a vast man, not so much by reason of
his height, which was below the medium, but
his bulk, which was enormous. The span of his
shoulders was immense, and, though a heavy
paunch and a white flabbiness of face spoke of a
gross, sedentary life, he was obviously a man of
quite unusual strength. His arms particularly
were out of all proportion to his stature, being


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 141
so long that his hands hung down on either side
of him when he stood erect, like the paws of
some giant ape. Altogether, there was some-
thing decidedly simian about his appearance
... his squat nose with hairy, open nostrils,
and the general hirsuteness of the man, his
bushy eye-brows, the tufts of black hair on his
cheek bones and on the backs of his big, spade-
like hands. And there was that in his eyes, dark
and courageous beneath the shaggy brows, that
hinted at accesses of ape-like fury, uncontroll-
able and ferocious.
He gave me his cigar which, as he had said,
was a good one, and, after a preliminary sip of
his wine, began to speak.
“I am a plain man, Herr Doktor," he said,
"and I like plain speaking. That is why I am
going to speak quite plainly to you. When it
became apparent that the person whom it is not
necessary to name further greatly desired a cer-
tain letter to be recovered, I naturally expected
that I, who am a past master in affairs of this
order, notably, on behalf of the person con-
cerned, would have been entrusted with the mis-
sion. It was I who discovered the author of the
theft in an English internment camp; it was I
who prevailed upon him to acquiesce in our
terms; it was I who finally located the hiding-
place of the document .... all this, mark
was


142 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
you, without setting foot in England.”
My thoughts flew back again to the three slips
of paper in their canvas cover, the divided crest,
the big, sprawling, upright handwriting. I
should have known that hand. I had seen it
often enough on certain photographs which were
accorded the place of honor in the drawing-room
at Consistorial-Rat von Mayburg's at Bonn.
"I therefore had the prior claim," Clubfoot
continued, “to be entrusted with the important
task of fetching the document and of handing it
back to the writer. But the gentleman was in a
hurry; the gentleman always is; he could not
wait for that old slowcoach of a Clubfoot to ma-
ture his plans for getting into England, secur-
ing the document, and getting out again.
“So Bernstorff is called into consultation, the
head of an embassy that has made the German
secret service the laughing-stock of the world,
an ambassador that has his private papers
filched by a common sneak-thief in the under-
ground railway and is fool enough to send home
the most valuable documents by a jackass of a
military attaché who lets the whole lot be taken
from him by a dunderheaded British customs
officer at Falmouth! This was the man who
was to replace me!
“Bernstorff is accordingly bidden to despatch
one of his trusty servants to England, with all


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 143
suitable precautions, to do my work. You are
chosen, and I will pay you the compliment of
saying that you fulfilled your mission in a man-
ner that is singularly out of keeping with the
usual method of procedure of that gentleman's
emissaries.
“But, my dear Doktor ... pray fill your
glass. That cigar is good, is it not? I thought
you would appreciate a good cigar. . . . As I
was saying, you were handicapped from the
first. When you reach the place indicated to
you in your instructions, you find only half the
document. The wily thief has sliced it in two so
as to make sure of his money before parting
with the goods. They didn't know, of course,
that Clubfoot, the old slowcoach, who is past his
work, was aware of this already, and had made
his plans accordingly. But, in the end, they had
to send for me. "The good Clubfoot,'"old chap,'
‘sly old fox,' and all the rest of it-would run
across to England and secure the other half,
while Count Bernstorff's smart young man from
America would wait in Rotterdam until Herr
Dr. Grundt arrived and handed him the other
portion.
“But Count Bernstorff's young man does
nothing of the kind. He is one too many for the
old fox. He does not wait for him. He runs
away, after displaying unusual determination in


144 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
dealing with a prying Engländer—whose fate
should be a lesson to all who interfere in other
people's business—and goes to Germany, leav-
ing poor old Clubfoot in the lurch. You must
admit, Herr Doktor, that I have been hardly
used-by yourself as well as by another per-
son.”
My throat was dry with anxiety. What did
the man mean by his veiled allusions to "all
who interfere in other people's business?"
I cleared my throat to speak.
Clubfoot raised a great hand in deprecation.
“No explanation, Herr Doktor, I beg” (his
tone was perfectly unconcerned and friendly),
“let me have my say. When I found out that
you had left Rotterdam—by the way, you must
let me congratulate you on the remarkable fer-
tility of resource you displayed in quitting Frau
Schratt's hospitable house—when I found you
were gone, I sat down and thought things out.
“I reflected that an astute American like
yourself (believe me, you are very astute)
would probably be accustomed to look at every-
thing from the business standpoint. 'I will also
consider the matter from the business stand-
point,' I said to myself, and I decided that, in
your place, I too would not be content to accept,
as sole payment for the danger of my mission,
the scarcely generous compensation that Count


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 145
Bernstorff allots to his collaborators. No, I
should wish to secure a little renown for myself,
or, were that not possible, then some monetary
gain proportionate with the risks I had run.
You see, I have been at pains to put myself
wholly in your place. I hope I have not said
anything tactless. If so, I can at least acquit
myself of any desire to offend.”
“On the contrary, Herr Doktor," I replied,
"you are the model of tact and diplomacy."
His eyes narrowed a little at this. I thought
he wouldn't like that word “diplomacy."
“Another glass of wine? You may safely
venture; there is not a headache in a bottle of
it. Well, Herr Doktor, since you have followed
me so patiently thus far, I will go further. I
told you, when I first saw you this evening, that
I was delighted at our meeting. That was no
mere banality, but the sober truth. For, you
see, I am the very person with whom, in the
circumstances, you would wish to get in touch.
Deprived of the honor, rightly belonging to me,
of undertaking this mission single-handed and
of fulfilling it alone, I find that you can enable
me to carry out the mission to a successful con-
clusion, whilst I, for my part, am able and wil-
ling to recompense your services as they de-
serve and not according to Bernstorff's starva-
tion scale.
hen I first Tar, I will have follow


146 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“To make a long story short, Herr Doktor
: . . how much?”
He brought his remarks to this abrupt anti-
climax so suddenly that I was taken aback. The
man was watching me intently for all his ap-
parent nonchalance, and I felt more than ever
the necessity for being on my guard. If I could
only fathom how much he knew. Of two things
I felt fairly sure: the fellow believed me to be
Semlin and was under the impression that I
still retained my portion of the document. I
should have to gain time. The bargain he pro-
posed over my half of the letter might give me
an opportunity of doing that. Moreover, I
must find out whether he really had the other
half of the document, and in that case, where
he kept it.
He broke the silence.
“Well, Herr Doktor," he said, “do you want
me to start the bidding? You needn't be afraid.
I am generous.”
I leant forward earnestly in my chair.
“You have spoken with admirable frankness,
Herr Doktor," I said, “and I will be equally
plain, but I will be brief. In the first place, I
wish to know that you are the man you profess
to be: so far, you must remember, I have only
the assurance of our excitable young friend.”.
“Your caution is most praiseworthy,” said


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 147
the other, “but I should imagine I carry my
name written on my boot.” And he lifted his
hideous and deformed foot.
"That is scarcely sufficient guarantee,” I an-
swered, “in a matter of this importance. A
detail like that could easily be counterfeited, or
otherwise provided for.”
“My badge," and the man produced from his
waistcoat pocket a silver star identical with the
one I carried on my braces, but bearing only
the letter “G” above the inscription “Abt.
VII.”
“That, even," I retorted, “is not conclusive."
Clubfoot's mind was extraordinarily alert,
however gross and heavy his body might be.
He paused for a moment in reflection, his
hands crossed upon his great paunch.
“Why not?” he said suddenly, reached out
for his cigar-case, beside him on the table, and
produced three slips of paper highly glazed
and covered with that unforgettable, sprawling
hand, a portion of a gilded crest at the top.-in
short, the missing half of the document I had
found in Semlin's bag. Clubfoot held them out
fanwise for me to see, but well out of my reach,
and he kept a great, spatulate thumb over the
top of the first sheet where the name of the ad-
dressee should have been.
“I trust you are now convinced, Herr Dok-


148 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
tor,” he said, with a smile that bared his teeth,
and, putting the pieces together, he folded them
across, tucked them carefully away in the
cigar-case again, and thrust it into his pocket.
I must test the ground further.
“Has it occurred to you, Herr Doktor," I
asked, “that we have very little time at our dis-
posal? The person whom we serve must be
anxiously waiting. ..."
Clubfoot laughed and shook his head.
“I want that half-letter badly," he said, “but
there's no violent hurry. So I fear you must
leave that argument out of your presentation
of the case, for it has no commercial value. The
person you speak of is not in Berlin.”
I had heard something of the Kaiser's sudden
appearances and disappearances during the
war, but I had not thought they could be so well
managed as to be kept from the knowledge of
one of his own trusted servants, for such I
judged Clubfoot to be. Evidently, he knew no-
thing of my visit to the Castle that evening, and
I was for a moment unpatriotic enough to wish
I had kept my half of the letter that I might
give it to Clubfoot now to save the coming ex-
posure. "A thousand dollars!” Clubfoot said.
I remained silent.
"Two? Three Four thousand? Man, you


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 149
are greedy. Well, I will make it five thousand
twenty thousand marks. ..."
“Herr Doktor," I said, “I don't want your
money. I want to be fair with you. When the
... the person we know of sends for you, we
will go together. You shall tell the large part
you have played in this affair. I only want
credit for what I have done, nothing more. ..."
A knock came at the door. The porter en-
tered.
“A telegram for the Herr Doktor,” he said,
presenting a salver.
Somewhere near by a band was playing dance
music ... one of those rousing, splendidly ac-
cented Viennese waltzes. There seemed to be
a ball on, for, through the open door of the
room, I heard, mingled with the strains of the
music, the sound of feet and the hum of voices.
Then the door closed, shutting out the outer
world again.
“You permit me,” said Grundt curtly, as he
broke the seal of the telegram. So as not to
seem to observe him, I got up and walked across
to the window, and leaned against the warm
radiator.
“Well?” said a voice from the arm-chair.
“Well?" I echoed.
“I have made you my proposal, Herr Doktor:
you have made yours. Yours is quite unaccept-


150 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
able. I have told you with great frankness why
it is necessary that I should have your portion
of the document and the sum I am prepared to
pay for it. I set its value at five thousand dol-
lars. I will pay you the money over in cash,
here and now in good German bank-notes, in
exchange for those slips of paper."
The man's suavity had all but vanished: his
voice was harsh and stern. His eyes glittered
under his shaggy brows as he looked at me.
Had I been less agitated, I should have noted
this, as a portent of the coming storm, also his
great ape's hands picking nervously at the tele-
gram in his lap.
"I have already told you." I said firmly.
“that I don't want your money. You know my
terms!”
He rose up from his seat and his figure seemed
to tower.
“Terms?" he cried in a voice that quivered
with suppressed passion, “terms? Understand
that I give orders. I accept terms from no man.
We waste time here talking. Come, take the
money and give me the paper.”
I shook my head. My brain was clear, but I
felt the crisis was coming. I took a good grip
with my hands of the marble slab covering the
radiator behind me to give me confidence. The
slab yielded: I noted that it was loose.


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 151
The man in front of me was shaking with
rage.
“Listen!” he said. “I'll give you one more
chance. But mark my words well. Do you know
what happened to the man that stole that docu-
ment? The English took him out and shot him
on account of what was found in his house when
they raided it. Do you know what happened to
the interpreter at the internment camp, who was
our go-between, who played us false by cutting
the document in half? The English shot him
too, on account of what was found in letters that
came to him openly through the post? And who
settled Schulte? And who settled the other
man? Who contrived the traps that sent them
to their doom? It was I, Grundt, 1, the cripple,
I, the Clubfoot, that had these traitors des-
patched as an example to the six thousand of
us who serve our Emperor and empire in dark-
ness! You dog, I'll smash you!"
He was gibbering like an angry ape: his frame
was shaking with fury: every hair in the tangle
on his face and hands seemed to bristle with his
Berserker frenzy.
But he kept away from me, and I saw that he
was still fighting to preserve his self-control.
I maintained a bold front.
“This may do for your own people,” I said


152 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
contemptuously, “but it doesn't impress me.
I'm an American citizen!"
He was calmer now, but his eyes glittered
dangerously.
“An American citizen?” he said in an icy
tone. Then he fairly hissed at me:
“You fool! Blind, besotted fool! Do you !
think you can trifle with the might of the Ger- vi
man Empire? Ah! I've played a pretty game
with you, you dirty English dog! I've watched
you squirming and writhing whilst the stupid
German told you his pretty little tale and plied
you with his wine and his cigars. You're in
our power now, you miserable English hound!
Do you understand that? Now call on your fleet
to come and save you!
“Listen! I'll be frank with you to the last.
I've had my suspicions of you from the first,
when they telephoned me that you had escaped
from the hotel, but I wanted to make sure. Ever
since you have been in this room it has been in
my power to push that bell there and send you
to Spandau, where they rid us of such dirty dogs
as you.
“But the game amused me. I liked to see the
Herr Engländer playing the spy against me, the
master of them all. Do you know, you fool, that
old Schratt knows English, that she spent years
of her harlot’s life in London, and that when you


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 153
allowed her a glimpse of that passport, your
own passport, the one you so cleverly burned,
she remembered the name? Ah! you didn't
know that, did you?
“Shall I tell you what was in that telegram
they just brought me? It was from Schratt,
our faithful Schratt, who shall have a bangle for
this night's work, to say that the corpse at the
hotel has a chain round its neck with an identity
disc in the name of Semlin. Ha! you didn't
know that either, did you?
“And you would bargain and chaffer with me!
You would dictate your terms, you scum! You
with your head in a noose, a spy that has failed
in his mission, a miserable wretch that I can send
to his death with a flip of my little finger! You
impudent hound! Well, you'll get your deserts
this time, Captain Desmond Okewood . . . but
I'll have that paper first!”
Roaring “Give it to me!” he rushed at me
like some frenzied beast of the jungle. The
veins stood out at his temples, his hairy nostrils
opened and closed as his breath came faster, his
long arms shot out and his great paws clutched
at my throat.
But I was waiting for him. As he came at me,
I heard his clubfoot stump once on the polished
floor, then, from the radiator behind me, I raised
high in my arms the heavy marble slab, and


CHAPTER XI
MISS MARY PRENDERGAST BISKS HER REPUTATION
THE rooms of our suite were intercom-
municating so that you could pass from
one to the other without going into the
corridor at all. Schmalz had retired this way,
going from my room through the bathroom to
his own room. In the excitement of the moment
I forgot all about this, else I should not have
omitted such an elementary precaution as slip-
ping the bolt of the door communicating between
my room and the bathroom.
As I stepped out into the corridor, with the
crash of that heavy body still ringing in my
ears, I thought I caught the sound of a light
step in the bathroom; the next moment I heard
a door open and then a loud exclamation of
horror in the room I had just left.
The corridor was dim and deserted. The
place seemed uninhabited. No boots stood
outside the rooms, and open doors, one after
155


156 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
the other, were sufficient indication that the
apartments they led to were untenanted.
I didn't pause to reason or to plan. On hear-
ing that long drawn out cry of horror, I dashed
blindly down the corridor at top speed, followed
it round to the right and then, catching sight of
a small staircase, rushed up it three steps at a
time. As I reached the top I heard a loud cry
somewhere on the floor below. Then a door
banged, there was the sound of running feet
and ... silence.
I found myself on the next floor in a corridor
similar to the one I had just left. Like it, it was
desolate and dimly lit. Like it, it showed room
after room silent and empty. Agitated as I
was, the contrast with the bright and busy vesti-
bule and the throng of uniformed servants be-
low was so marked that it struck me with con-
vincing force. Even the hotels, it seemed, were
part and parcel of the great German publicity
bluff which I had noted in my reading of the
German papers at Rotterdam.
I had no plan in my head, only a wild desire
to put as much distance as possible between me
and that ape-man in the room below. So, after
pausing a moment to listen and draw breath, I
started off again. Suddenly a door down the
corridor, not ten paces away from me, opened
and a woman came out. I stopped dead in my


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST
157
headlong course, but it was too late and I found
myself confronting her.
She was young and very beautiful with masses
of thick brown hair clustering round a very
white forehead. She was in evening dress, all
in white, with an ermine wrap.
Even as I looked at her I knew her and she
knew me.
“Monica," I whispered.
“Why! Desmond!” she said.
A regular hubbub echoed from below. Voices
were crying out, doors were banging, there was
the sound of feet.
The girl was speaking, saying in her low and
pleasant voice phrases that were vague to me
about her surprise, her delight at seeing me.
But I did not listen to her. I was straining my
ears towards that volume of chaotic noises
which came swelling up from below.
“Monica!” I interrupted swiftly, "have you
any place to hide me? This place is dangerous
for me. ... I must get away. If you can't
save me, don't stay here but get away yourself
as fast as you can. They're after me and if
they catch you with me it will be bad for you!”
Without a word the girl turned round to the
room she had just left. She beckoned to me,
then knocked and went in. I followed her. It
was a big, pleasant bedroom, elegantly furnished


158 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
with a soft carpet and silk hangings, and I know
not what, with shaded lights and flowers in pro-
fusion. Sitting up in bed was a stout, placid-
looking woman in a pink silk kimono with her
hair coquettishly braided in two short pigtails
which hung down on either side of her face.
Monica closed the door softly behind her.
“Why, Monica !” she exclaimed in horror-
and her speech was that of the United States-
"what on earth..."
“Not a word, Mary, but let me explain. ..."
“But for land's sake, Monica. ..."
“Mary, I want you to help. ..."
“But say, child, a man ... in my bed-
room ... at this time o' night. ..."
“Oh, shucks, Mary! let me talk.”
The distress of the woman in bed was so
comic that I could scarcely help laughing. She
had dragged the bed-clothes up till only her
eyes could be seen. Her pigtails bobbed about
in her emotion.
“Now, Mary dear, listen here. You're a
friend of mine. This is Desmond Okewood,
another, a very old and dear friend of mine, too.
Well, you know, Mary, this isn't a healthy coun-
try these times for an English officer. That's
what Desmond here is. I didn't know he was in
Germany. I don't know a thing about him ex-
cept what he's told me and that's that he's in


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST
159
danger and wants me to help him. I met him
outside and brought him right in here, as I
know you would want me to, wouldn't you,
dear?"
The lady poked her nose over the top of the
bed-clothes.
“Present the gentleman properly, Monica !”
she said severely.
“Captain Okewood ... Miss Mary Pren-
dergast,” said Monica.
The lady's head, pigtails and all, now ap-
peared. She appeared to be somewhat molli-
fied.
"I can't say I approve of your way of doing
things, Monica," she observed, but less severely
than before, "and I can't think what an English
officer wants in my bedroom at ten minutes of
two in the morning, but if those Deutschers
want to find him, perhaps I can understand!”
Here she smiled affectionately on the beauti-
ful girl at my side.
“Ah! Mary, you're a dear," replied Monica.
“I knew you'd help us. Why, a British officer
in Germany ... isn't it too thrilling?"
She turned to me.
“But, Des,” she said, “what do you want me
to do?"
I knew I could trust Monica and I resolved I
would trust her friend too ... she looked a


160 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
white woman all right. And if she was a friend
of Monica's her heart would be in the right
place. Francis and I had known Monica all
our lives almost. Her father had lived for
years . . . indeed to the day of his death ...
in London as the principal European represen-
tative of a big American financial house. They
had lived next door to us in London and Francis
and I had known Monica from the days when
she was a pretty kid in short skirts until she
had made her debut and the American ambassa-
dress had presented her at Buckingham Palace.
At various stages of our lives, both Francis and
I had been in love with her, I believe, but my
life in the army had kept me much abroad, so
Francis had seen most of her and had been the
hardest hit.
Then the father died and Monica went travel-
ing abroad in great state, as befits a young
heiress, with a prodigiously respectable Ameri-
can chaperon and a retinue of retainers. I
never knew the rights of the case between her
and Francis, but at one of the German embassies
abroad-I think in Vienna-she met the young
Count Rachwitz, head of one of the great Sile-
sian noble houses, and married him.
It was not on the usual rock-money-that
this German-American marriage was wrecked,
for the Count was very wealthy himself. I had


162 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
secrets the safer they would be. I am afraid,
therefore, that my account of my interview with
the Emperor was a trifle garbled, for I made out
that I did not know why I was bidden to the
presence and that our conversation was inter-
rupted before I could discover the reason.
The two women listened with grave faces.
Only once did Monica interrupt me. It was
when I mentioned General von Boden.
"I know the beast,” she said. “But, oh,
Des!” she exclaimed, "you seem to have fallen
right among the top set in this country. They're
a bad lot to cross. I fear you are in terrible
danger."
“I believe you, Monica,” I answered, dole-
fully enough. “And that's just where I feel
such a beast for throwing myself upon your
mercy in this way. But I was pretty desperate
when I met you just now and I didn't know
where to turn. Still, I want you to understand
that if you can only get me out of this place I
shall not trouble you further. I came to this
country on my own responsibility and I'm going
through with it alone. I have no intention of
implicating anybody else along with me. But I
confess I don't believe it is possible to get away
from this hotel. They're watching every door
by now. Besides ..."
I stopped abruptly. A noise outside caught


164 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
"You won't catch any Deutschers fooling
Mary Prendergast," said the jovial lady in the
bed; “but, children, what next?”
Monica spoke-quite calmly. She was always
perfectly self-possessed.
“My brother is stopping with me in our apart-
ment in the Bendler-Strasse,” she said. “You
remember Gerry, Des—he got all smashed up
flying, you know, and is practically a cripple.
He's been so much better here that I've been
trying to get an attendant to look after him, to
dress him and so on, but we couldn't find any-
body; men are so scarce nowadays! You could
come home with me, Des, and take this man's
place for a day or two ... I'm afraid it
couldn't be longer. for one would have to regis-
ter you with the police-every one has to be
registered, you know and I suppose you have
no papers that are any good—now."
“You are too kind, Monica," I answered,
“but you risk too much and I can't accept."
"It's no risk for a day or two," she said.
“I am a person of consequence in official Ger-
many, you know, with my husband A.D.C. to
Marshal von Mackensen: and I can always say
I forgot to send in your papers. If they come
down upon me afterwards I should say I meant
to register you but had to discharge you sud-
denly . . . for drink!"


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST
105
“But how can I get away from here?” I ob-
jected.
"I guess we can fix that too,” she replied.
“My car is coming for me at two-it must be
that now--I have been at a dance downstairs-
one of the Radolin girls is getting married to
morrow-it was so deadly dull I ran up here
and woke up Mary Prendergast to talk. You
shall be my chauffeur! I know you drive a car!
You ought to be able to manage mine . . . it's
a Mercédès."
“I can drive any old car," I said, “but I'm
blessed ..."
“Wait there!” cried this remarkable girl, and
ran out of the room.
For twenty minutes I stood and made small
talk with Miss Prendergast. They were the
longest twenty minutes I have ever spent. I
was dead tired in any case, but my desperate
position kept my thoughts so busy that, for all
my endeavors to be polite, I fear my conversa-
tion was extremely distraught.
“You poor boy!” suddenly said Miss Mary
Prendergast, totally ignoring a profound re-
mark I was making regarding Mr. Wilson's
policy, “don't you go on talking to me! Sit
down on that chair and go to sleep! You look
just beat!”
I sat down and nodded in the arm-chair.


166 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Suddenly I was awake. Monica stood before
me. She drew from under her cape a livery
cap and uniform.
“Put these things on,” she said, "and listen
carefully. When you leave here, turn to the
right and take the little staircase you will find on
the right. Go down to the bottom, go through
the glass doors, and across the room you will find
there, to a door in a corner which leads to the
ballroom entrance of the hotel. I will give you
my ermine wrap to carry. I shall be waiting
there. You will help me on with my cloak and
escort me to the car. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly."
“Now, pay attention once more, for I shall
not be able to speak to you again. I shall have
to give you your directions for finding the way
to the Bendler-Strasse.”
She did so and added:
“Drive carefully, whatever you do. If we
had a smash and the police intervened, it might
be most awkward for you.
“But your chauffeur," I said, “what will he
do?”
“Oh, Carter," she answered carelessly, "he's
tickled to death . .. he's American, you see
... he drove me out into the Tiergarten just
now and took off his livery, then drove me back
here, hopped off and went home.”


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 167
“But can you trust him?" I asked anxiously.
“Like myself,” she said. “Besides, Carter's
been to Belgium ... he drove Count Rach-
witz, my husband, while he was on duty there.
And Carter hasn't forgotten what he saw in
Belgium!”
She gave me the key of the garage and fur-
ther instructions how to put the car up. Carter
would give me a bed at the garage and would
bring me round to the house early in the morn-
ing as if I were applying for the job of male
attendant for Gerry.
"I will go down first,” Monica said, "so as
not to keep you waiting. My, but they're
rattled downstairs—all the crowd at Olga von
Radolin's dance have got hold of the story and
the place is full of policemen. But there'll be
no danger if you walk straight up to me in the
hall and keep your face turned away from the
crowd as much as possible.”
She kissed Miss Prendergast and slipped
away. What a splendid pair of women they
were: so admirably cool and resourceful: they
seemed to have thought of everything.
“Good night, Miss Prendergast," I said.
“You have done me a good turn. I shall never
forget it!” And as the only means at my dis-
posal for showing my gratitude, I kissed her
hand.


168 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
She colored up like a girl.
“It's a long time since any one did that to a
silly old woman like me,” she said musingly.
“Was it you or your brother,” she asked ab-
ruptly, “who nearly broke my poor girl's
heart?”
"I shouldn't like to say," I answered; "but
I don't think, speaking personally, that Monica
ever cared enough about me for me to plead
guilty."
She sniffed contemptuously.
“If that is so," she said, “all I can say is
that you seem to have all the brains of your
family!”
With that I took my leave.
I reached the ballroom vestibule without
meeting a soul. The place was crowded with
people, officers in uniform, glittering with
decorations, women in evening dress, coach-
men, footmen, chauffeurs, waiters. Everybody
was talking sixteen to the dozen, and there were
such dense knots of people that at first I couldn't
see Monica. Two policemen were standing at
the swing-doors leading into the street, and with
them a civilian who looked like a detective. I
caught sight of Monica, almost at the detec-


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 169
tive's elbow, talking to two very elegant-looking
officers. I pushed my way across the vestibule,
turned my back on the detective and stood im-
passively beside her.
“Ah! there you are, Carter!” she said.
“Gute Nacht, Herr Baron! Auf wiedersehen,
Durchlaucht!"
The two officers kissed her hand whilst I
helped her into her wrap. Then I marched
straight out of the swing-doors in front of her,
looking neither to right nor to left, past the de-
tective and the two policemen. The detective
may have looked at me: if so, I didn't perceive
it. I had made up my mind not to see him.
Outside Monica took the lead and brought
me over to a chocolate-colored limousine drawn
up at the pavement. I noted with dismay that
the engine was stopped. That might mean
further delay whilst I cranked up. But a
friendly chauffeur standing by seized the handle
and started the engine whilst I assisted Monica
into the car, and the next moment we were
gliding smoothly over the asphalt under the
twinkling arc-lamps.
The Bendler-Strasse is off the Tiergarten, not
far from the Esplanade, and I found my way
there without much difficulty. I flatter myself
that both Monica and I played our parts well,
and I am sure nothing could have been more


170 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
professional than the way I helped her to alight.
It was an apartment house and she had the key
of the front door, so, after seeing her safely
within doors, I returned to the car and drove
it round to the garage by a carriage-way leading
to the rear of the premises.
As I unlocked the double doors of the garage,
a man came down a ladder outside the place
leading to the upper room.
“Did it work all right, sir?” he asked.
“Is that Carter?” I said.
“Sure that's me,” came the cheery response.
“Stand by now and we'll run her in. Then I'll
show you where you are to sleep!”
We stowed the car away and he took me up-
stairs to his quarters, a bright little room with
electric light, a table with a red cloth, a cheer-
ful open fire and two beds. The walls were or-
namented with pictures cut from the American
Sunday supplements, mostly feminine and horsy
studies.
“It's a bit rough, mister,” said Carter, “but
it's the best I can do. Gee! but you look that
dawg-gorn tired I guess you could sleep any-
wheres!”
He was a friendly fellow, pleasant-looking in
an ugly way, with a button nose and honest
eyes.
“Say, but I like to think of the way we


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST
171
fooled them Deutschers,” he chuckled. He
kept on chuckling to himself whilst I took off
my boots and began to undress.
“That there is your bed,” he said, pointing;
“the footman used to sleep there but they
grabbed him for the army. There's a pair of
Mr. Gerry's pyjamas for you and you'll find a
cup of cocoa down warming by the fire. It's all
a bit rough, but it's the best we can do. I guess
you want to go to sleep mortal bad, so I'll be
going down. The bed's clean ... there are
clean sheets on it. ..."
“But I won't turn you out of your room," I
said. “There are two beds. You must take
yours.”
“Don't you fret yourself about me," he
answered. “I'll make myself comfortable down
in the garage. I don't often see a gentleman
in this dawg-gorn country, and when I do I
know how to treat him.”
He wouldn't listen to me, but stumped off
down the stairs. As he went I heard him mur-
muring to himself:
“Gee! but we surely fooled those Deutschers
some!”
I drank this admirable fellow's cocoa; I
warmed myself at his fire. Then with a thank-
ful heart I crawled into bed and sank into a
deep and dreamless sleep.


CHAPTER XII
HIS EXCELLENCY THE GENERAL IS WORRIED
SAT with Monica in her boudoir, which,
unlike the usual run of German rooms, had
an open fireplace in which a cheerful fire
was burning. Monica, in a ravishing kimono,
was perched on the leather railed seat running
round the fireplace, one little foot in a satin
slipper held out to the blaze. In that pretty
room she made a charming picture, which for
a moment almost made me forget the manifold
dangers besetting me.
The doughty Carter had acquitted himself
nobly of his task. When I awoke, feeling
like a giant refreshed, he had the fire blazing
merrily in the fireplace, while on the table a
delicious breakfast of tea and fried eggs and
biscuits was spread.
“There ain't no call to mess yourself up
inside with that dam' war bread of theirs," he
chirped. “Miss Monica, she lets me have bis-
172


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 173
cuits, same like she has herself. I always calls
her Miss Monica,” he explained, “like what
they did over at her uncle's place in Long Is-
land, where I used to work.”
After breakfast he produced hot water, a
safety razor and other toilet requisites, a
clean shirt and collar, an overcoat and a Stetson
hat-all from Gerry's wardrobe, I presumed.
My boots, too, were beautifully polished, and
it was as a new man altogether, fresh in mind
and clean in body, that I presented myself,
about ten o'clock in the morning, at the front
door and demanded the “Frau Gräfin." By
Carter's advice I had removed my moustache,
and my clean-shaven countenance, together
with my black felt hat and dark overcoat,
gave me, I think, that appearance of rather dour
respectability which one looks for in a male at-
tendant.
Now Monica and I sat and reviewed the situa-
tion together.
“German servants spend their lives in pry-
ing into their masters' affairs,” she said, “but
we shan't be interrupted here. That door
leads into Gerry's room: he was asleep when
I went in just now. I'll take you in to him
presently. Now tell me about yourself ... and
Francis!"
I told her again, but at greater length, all I


174 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
knew about Francis, his mission into Germany,
his long silence.
“I acted on impulse," I said, “but, believe
me, I acted for the best. Only, everything
seems to have conspired against me. I appear
to have walked straight into a mesh of the most
appalling complications which reach right up
to the Throne.”
“Never mind, Des,” she said, leaning over
and putting a little hand on my arm, “it was
for Francis; you and I would do anything to
help him, wouldn't we?... if he is still alive,
Impulse is not such a bad thing, after all. If
I had acted on impulse once, maybe poor Fran-
cis would not now be in the fix he is...."
And she sighed.
“Things look black enough, Des,” she went
on. “Maybe you and I won't get the chance
of another chat like this again and that's why
I'm going to tell you something I have never
told anybody else. I am only telling you so
you will know that, whatever happens, you will
always find in me an ally in your search ...
though, tied as I am, I scarcely think I can ever
help you much.
“You brother wanted me to marry him. I
liked him better than anybody else I had ever
met ... or have ever met since, for that mat-
ter. . . . Daddy was dead, I was absolutely fres


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED
175
to please myself, so no difficulties stood in the
way. But your brother was proud . i. his
pride was greater than his love for me, I told
him when we parted ... and he wouldn't hear
of marriage until he had made himself inde-
pendent, though I had enough for both of us.
He wanted me to wait a year or two until he
had got his business started properly, but his
pride angered me and I wouldn't.
“So we quarreled and I went abroad with
Mrs. Rushwood. Francis never wrote: all I
heard about him was an occasional scrap in
your letters. Mrs. Rushwood was crazy about
titles, and she ran me round from court to court,
always looking for what she called a suitable
parti for me. At Vienna we met Rachwitz ...
he was very good looking and very well man-
nered and seemed to be really fond of me.
“Well, I gave Francis another chance. I
wrote him a friendly letter and told him about
Rachwitz wanting to marry me and asked his
advice. He wrote me back a beastly letter, a
wicked letter, Des. “Any girl who is fool enough
to sell herself for a title,' he said, "richly de-
serves a German husband.' What do you think
of that?"
"Poor old Francis,” I said. "He was ter-
ribly fond of you, Monica !”
“Well, his letter did it. I married Rachwitz


176 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
... and have been miserable ever since. I'm
not going to bore you with a long story about
my matrimonial troubles. No! I'm not going
to cry either! I'm not crying! Karl is not a
bad man, as German men go, and he's a gentle-
man, but his love affairs and his drunken
parties and his attitude of mind towards me;
it was so utterly different to everything I had
been used to. Then you know, I left him.”
“But, Monica," I exclaimed, “what are you
doing here then?”
She sighed wearily.
“I'm a German by marriage, Des,” she said,
"you can't get away from that. My husband's
country ... my country ... is at war and
the wives must play their part, wherever their
heart is. Karl never asked me to come back,
I'll give him the credit for that. I came of my
own accord because I felt my place was here.
So I go round to needlework parties and sewing
bees and Red Cross matinées and try to be civil
to the German women and listen to their boast-
ing and bragging about their army, their hypoc-
risy about Belgium, their vilification of the best
friends Daddy and I ever had, you English!
But doing my duty by my husband does not
forbid me to help my friends when they are in
danger. That's why you can count on me, Des."
And she gave me her hand.


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 177
“I want to be frank with you, too,” I said,
“so, whatever happens to me, you won't feel
I have deceived you about things. I can't say
much because my secret is not healthy for any-
one to share, and, should they trace any con-
nection between you and me, if they get me, it
will be better for you not to have known any-
thing compromising. But I want to tell you
this. There is a consideration at stake which
is higher than my own safety, higher even than
Francis'. I don't believe I am afraid to die:
if I escape here, I shall probably get killed at
the front sooner or later: it is because of this
consideration I speak of that I want to get away
with my life back to England.”
Monica laughed happily.
“Why do men always take us women to be
fools?” she said. “You're a dangerous man
to have around, Des, I know that, without wor-
rying my head about any old secret. But you
are my friend and Francis' brother and I'm
going to help you.
“Now, listen! Old von Boden was at that
party last night: he came in late. Rudi von
Boden, he told me, is going to take despatches
to Rumania, to Mackensen's headquarters.
Well, I telephoned the old man this morning
and asked him if Rudi would take a parcel for
me to Karl. He said he would and the General


178 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
is coming here to lunch to day to fetch it.
“Von Boden is an old beast and runs after
every woman he meets. He is by way of being
partial to me, if you please, sir. I think I
should be able to find out from him what are
the latest developments in your case. There's
nothing in the paper this morning about the af-
fair at the Esplanade. But then, these things
“He'll hardly say much in the circumstan-
ces," I objected. “After all, the Kaiser is in-
volved. ..."
“My dear Des, opinion of feminine intelli-
gence in military circles in this country is so
low that the women in the army set at Court
are very often far better informed than the Gen-
eral Staff. Von Boden will tell me all I want
to know.”
What a girl she was!
“About your friend, the clubfooted man,"
she went on, “I'm rather puzzled. He must be
a person of considerable importance to be
fetched by special train straight into the Em-
peror's private apartments, where very few
people ever penetrate, I assure you. But I've
never heard of him. He's certainly not a Court
official. Nor is be the head of the Political Po-
Still, there are people of great importance work-


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 179
ing in dark places in this country and I guess
Clubfoot must be one of them.
“Now, I think I ought to take you in to Gerry.
I want to speak to you about him, Des. I
daren't tell him who you are. Gerry's not him-
self. He's been a nervous wreck ever since his
accident and I can't trust him. He's a very
conventional man and his principles would
never hear of me harboring a ...a..."
“Spy?" I suggested.
“No, a friend," she corrected. “So you'll
just have to be a male nurse, I guess. A Ger-
man-American would be best, I think, as you'll
have to read the German papers to Gerry-he
doesn't know a word of German. Then, you
must have a name of some kind. ..."
“Frederick Meyer," I suggested promptly,
“from Pittsburg. It'll have to be Pittsburg:
Francis went there for a bit, you know: he
wrote me a lot about the place and I've seen
pictures of it, too. It's the only American city
I know anything about.”
“Let it be Meyer from Pittsburg, then,"
smiled Monica, “but you've got a terrible Eng-
lish accent, Des. I guess we'll have to tell Ger-
ry you were years nursing in London before
the war."
She hesitated a moment, then added :
“Des, I'm afraid you'll find Gerry very try-


180 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
ing. He's awfully irritable and ... and very
spiteful. So you must be careful not to give
yourself away.”
I had only met the brother once and my recol-
lection of him was of a good looking, rather
spoilt young man. He had been brought up
entirely in the States by the Long Island uncle
whose great fortune he had inherited.
“You'll be quite safe up here for the pres-
ent," Monica went on. “You'll sleep in the
little room off Gerry's and I'll have your meals
served there too. After I have found out from
the General how things stand, we'll decide
what's to be done next.”
"I'll be very wary with Master Gerry," I
said. “But, Monica, though he has only seen
me once, he knows Francis pretty well and we
are rather alike. Do you think he'll recognize
me?"
“Why, Desmond, it's years since he saw you.
And you're not much like Francis with your
moustache off. If you're careful, it'll be all
right! It isn't for long, either. Now we'll go
in. Come along.".
As we entered, a petulant voice cried:
“Is that you, Monica? Say, am I to be left
alone all the morning?"
“Gerry, dear," answered Monica very sweet-
ly, “I've been engaging someone to look after
TOù to be done neutes stand,


182 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Pead the world anecialist in Delf dollars.
Those English are plumb crazy. They'll never
whip Germany, not if they try for a century.
Why, look what this country has done in this
war! Nothing can stand against her! It's or-
ganization, that's what it is! The Germans
lead the world. Take their doctors! I have
been to every specialist in America about my
back and paid them thousands of dollars. And
what good did they do me? Not a thing. I
come to Germany, they charge me a quarter of
the fees, and I feel a different man already.
Before tackling the Germans, the English. ..."
Thus he ran on. I knew the type well, the
American who is hypnotized by German effi-
ciency and thoroughness so completely that he
does not see the reverse side of the medal.
He exhausted himself on the topic at last and
bade me read to him again.
“Read about the affair at the Hotel Es-
planade last night,” he commanded.
I had kept an eye open for this very item but,
as Monica had said, the papers contained no
it. Monica would not have told him.
“What affair do you mean?” I said.
soThere is nothing about it in the papers."
“Of course there is, you fool. What is the
use of my hiring you to read the papers to me
if you can't find news that's spread all over


184 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
se
seemed anxious to make amends for his be-
havior.
“I'm afraid I'm a bit trying at times, Meyer,”
he said with a pleasant smile. "But you're a
good fellow. Go and have your lunch. You
needn't come back till four:I always sleep after
luncheon. Here, have a cigar!”
I took the cigar with all bumility as beseemed
my rôle and followed the valet into an adjoin-
ing room, where the table was laid for me. I
am keenly sensitive to outside influences, and I
left instinctively distrustful of the man Josef.
I expect he resented my intrusion into a
sphere where his influence had probably been
supreme and where he had doubtless managed
to secure a good harvest of pickings.
He left me to my luncheon and went away.
After an excellent lunch, washed down by
some first-rate claret, I was enjoying my cigar
over a book when Josef reappeared again.
“The Frau Gräfin will see you downstairs!”
he said.
Monica received me in a morning-room (the
apartment was on two floors). She was very
much agitated and had lost all her habitual
calm.
“Des,” she said, "von Boden has been here!”,
“Well!" I replied eagerly.
“I wasn't very successful," she went on “I'm


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED
185
in deep water, Des, and that's the truth. I have
never seen the old General as he was to-day.
He's a frightful bully and tyrant, but even his
worst enemy never accused him of cowardice.
But, Des, to-day the man was cowed. He
seemed to be in terror of his life and I had the
greatest difficulty in making him say anything
at all about your affair.
"I made a joking allusion to the escapade at
the hotel last night and he said:
""Yesterday may prove the ruin of not only
my career but that of my son's also. Yester-
day gained for me as an enemy, Madam, a man
whom it spells ruin, perhaps death, to offend.'
“'You mean the Emperor?' I asked.
66 The Emperor!” he said. "Oh! of course,
he's furious. No, I was not speaking of the
Emperor!'
“Then he changed the subject and it took me .
all my tact to get back to it. I asked him if
they had caught the author of the attack at the
Esplanade. He said, no, but it was only a ques-
tion of time: the fellow couldn't escape, I said
I supposed they would offer a reward and pub-
lish a description of the assailant all over the
country. He told me they would do nothing of
the sort.
"The public will hear nothing about the
affair,' he said, 'and if you will take my advice,


186 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Countess, you will forget all about it. In any
case, the Princess Radolin is writing to all her
guests at the ball last night to urge them strong-
ly to say nothing about the incident. The em.
ployees of the hotel will keep their mouths shut.
The interests at stake forbid that there should
be any attempt whatsoever made in public to
throw light on the affair.'
"That is all I could get out of him. But I
have something further to tell you. The
General went away immediately after lunch,
Almost as soon as he had gone I was called to
the telephone. Dr. Henninger was there: he is
the head of the Political Police, you know. He
gave me the same advice as the General, name:
ly, to forget all about what occurred at the Esu
planade last night. And then the Princess Rau
dolin rang me op to say the same thing. She
seemed very frightened: she was quite tearful.
Someone evidently had scared her badly."
“Monica," I said, "it's quite clear I can't
stay here. My dear girl, if I am discovered in
your house, there is no knowing what trouble
may not come upon you."
"If there is any risk,” she answered, “it's a
risk I am ready to take. You have nowhere to
go to in Berlin, and if you are caught outside
they might find out where you had been hiding
and then we should be as badly off as before.


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 187
No, you stay right on here, and maybe in a day
or two I can get you away. I've been thinking
something out.
“Karl has a place near the Dutch frontier,
Schloss Bellevue, it is called, close to Cleves.
It's an old place and has been in the family for
generations. Karl, however, only uses it as a
shooting-box: we had big shoots up there every
autumn before the war.
“There has been no shooting there for two
years now and the place is overstocked with
game. The Government has been appealing to
people with shooting preserves to kill their game
and put it on the market, so I had arranged to
go up to Bellevue this month and see the agent
about this. I thought if I could prevail on Ger-
ry to come with me, you could accompany him
and you might get across the Dutch frontier
from there. It's only about fifteen miles away
from the Castle. If I can get a move on Gerry,
there is no reason why we shouldn't go away in
a day or two. In the meantime you'll be quite
safe here."
I told her I must think it over: she seemed
to be risking too much. But I think my mind
was already made up. I could not bring des-
truction on this faithful friend.
Then I went upstairs again to Gerry, who was
in as vile a temper as before. His lunch had


188 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
disagreed with him: he hadn't slept: the room
was not hot enough ... these were a few of
the complaints he showered at me as soon as
I appeared. He was in his most impish and
malicious mood. He sent me running hither
and thither: he gave me an order and withdrew
it in the same breath: my complacency seemed
to irritate him, to encourage him to provoke me.
At last he came back to his old sore subject,
my English accent.
"I guess our good American is too homely for
a fine English gentleman like you," he said,
“but I believe you'll as lief speak as you were
taught before you're through with this city. An
English accent is not healthy in Berlin at pres-
ent, Mister Meyer, sir, and you'd best learn to
talk like the rest of us if you want to keep on
staying in this house.
“I'm in no state to be worried just now and
I've no notion of having the police in here be-
cause some of their dam' plain-clothes men have
heard my attendant saying "charnce' and
darnce' like any Britisher-especially with this
English spy running round loose. By the way,
you'll have to be registered? Has my sister
seen about it yet?”
I said she was attending to it.
“I want to know if she's done it. I'm a help-
less cripple and I can't get a thing done for me.


190 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
done that way in the house; he wouldn't have
unkown foreigners brought in, with the city
thick with spies-especially people with an Eng-
lish accent-his nerves wouldn't stand it: Mon-
ica ought to know better, and so on and so forth.
The long and the short of it was that I was
ordered to produce my passport immediately.
Monica was to ring up the embassy to ask them
to stretch a point and see to it out of office
hours, then Josef should take me round to the
police.
I don't know how we got out of that room.
It was Monica, with her sweet womanly tact,
who managed it. I believe the madman even
demanded to see my passport, but Monica
scraped me through that trap as well.
I had left my hat and coat in the entrance hall
downstairs. I put on my coat, then went to
Monica in the morning-room.
There was much she wanted to say—I could
see it in her eyes, but I think she gathered from
my face what I was going to do, so she said
nothing.
At the door I said aloud, for the benefit of
josef, who was on the stairs :
“Very good, my lady. I will come straight
back from the embassy and then go with Josef
to the police.??
The next moment I was adrift in Berlin.


CHAPTER XIII
I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT
UTSIDE darkness had fallen. I had a
vague suspicion that the house might be
watched, but I found the Bendler-
Strasse quite undisturbed. It ran its quiet, aris-
tocratic length to the tangle of bare branches
marking the Tiergarten-Strasse with not so
much as a dog to strike terror into the heart of
the amateur spy. Even in the Tiergarten-
Strasse, where the Jewish millionaires live,
there was little traffic and few people about, and
I felt singularly unromantic as I walked briskly
along the clean pavements towards Unter den
Linden.
Once more the original object of my journey
into Germany stood clearly before me. An ex-
traordinary series of adventures had deflected
me from my course, but never from my purpose.
I realized that I should never feel happy in my
mind again if I left Germany without being as-
191


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 193
always useful to flash in the eyes of the ignor-
ant. But this passport was dangerous. It might
denounce me to a man who would not otherwise
recognize me.
I had some difficulty in finding In den Zelten.
I had to ask the way, once of a postman and
once of a wounded soldier who was limping
along with crutches. Finally, I found it, a
narrowish street running off a corner of the
great square in front of the Reichstag. No. 2
was the second house on the right.
I had no plan. Nevertheless, I walked boldly
upstairs. There was but one flat on each floor.
At the third story I halted, rather out of breath,
in front of a door with a small brass plate in-
scribed with the name “Eugen Kore." I rang
the bell boldly.
An elderly man-servant opened the door.
“Is Herr Eugen Kore at home?” I asked.
The man looked at me suspiciously.
“Has the gentleman an appointment?” he
said.
“No," I replied.
"Then the Herr will not receive the gentle-
man," came the answer, and the man made as
though to close the door.
I had an inspiration.
“A moment!” I cried, and I added the word
© Achilles" in a low voice.


194 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
The servant opened the door wide to me.
“Why didn't you say that at once?” he said.
“Please step in. I will see if the Herr can re-
ceive you."
He led the way through a hall into a sitting-
room and left me there. The place was a per-
fect museum of art treasures, old Dutch and
Italian masters on the walls, some splendid Flor-
entine chests, a fine old dresser loaded with
ancient pewter. On a mantelshelf was an extra-
ordinary collection of old keys, each with its
label. “Key of the fortress of Spandau, 1715.”
“Key of the Postern Gate of the Pasha's Palace
at Belgrade, 1810,” “House Key from Nurem-
berg, 1567,” were some of the descriptions I
read.
Then a voice behind me said:
“Ah! you admire my little treasures!"
Turning, I saw a short, stout man, of a marked
Jewish appearance, with a bald head, a fat nose,
little beady eyes and a large waist.
"Eugen Kore!” he introduced himself with .
a bow.
"Meyer!" I replied, in the German fashion.
“And what can we do for Herr ... Meyer???
he asked in oily tones, pausing just long enough
before he pronounced the name I gave to let me
see that he believed it to be a pseudonym.
“I believe you know a friend of mine, whose


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT
195
address I am anxious to find," I said.
“Ah!" sighed the little Jew, "a man of af-
fairs like myself meets so many people that he
may be pardoned ... What did you say his
name was, this friend of yours?”.
I thought I would try the effect of the name
“Eichenholz” upon this enigmatic creature.
“Eichenholz? Eichenholz?” Kore repeated.
"I seem to know the name ... it seems familiar
... now let me see again. ... Eichenholz,
Eichenholz. ..."
While he was speaking he unlocked one of the
oak cabinets and a safe came to view. Opening
this, he brought out a ledger and ran his finger
down the names. Then he shut the book, re-
placed it, locked the safe and the cabinet, and
turned to me again.
“Yes," he said, “I know the name.”
His reticence was disconcerting.
“Can you tell me where I can find him!” I
asked.
“Yes," was the reply.
I was getting a trifle nettled.
"Well, where?” I queried.
“This is all very well, young Sir,” said the
Jew. “You come in here from nowhere, you
introduce yourself as Meyer; you ask me “Who?'
and "What?' and Where?'—questions that,
mark you, in my business, may have valuable


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 197
word and he will pay you five hundred marks.'"
“The word?” I said.
“The word,” he repeated.
“You must take Dutch money," I said. “Here
you are . . . work it out in gulden . . . and
I'll pay!”
He manipulated a stump of pencil on a writ-
ing block and I paid him his money.
Then he said:
“Boonekamp!”
“Boonekamp?” I echoed stupidly.
“That's the word,” the little Jew chuckled,
laughing at my dumbfounded expression, "and,
if you want to know, I understand it as little as
you do."
"But . . . Boonekamp," I repeated. “Is it
a man's name, a place? It sounds Dutch. Have
you no idea? . . . come, I'm ready to pay.”
“Perhaps ..." the Jew began.
“What? Perhaps what?" I exclaimed im-
patiently.
"Possibly ..."
“Out with it, man!” I cried, and say what
you mean.”
"Perhaps, if I could render to the gentleman
the service I rendered to his brother, I might be
able to throw light ..."
“What service did you render to my broth-
er?” I demanded hastily. “I'm in the dark.”


198 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“Has the gentleman no little difficulty per-
haps? ... about his military service, about his
papers? The gentleman is young and strong
... has he been to the front? Was life irk-
some there? Did he ever long for the sweets of
home life? Did he never envy those who have
been medically rejected? The rich men's sons,
perhaps, with clever fathers who know how to
get what they want?”.
His little eyes bored into mine like gimlets.
I began to understand.
"And if I had?”
“Then all old Kore can say is that the gentle-
man has come to the right shop, as his gracious
brother did. How can we serve the gentleman
now? What are his requirements? It is a dif-
ficult, a dangerous business. It costs money,
much money, but it can be arranged ... it can
be arranged.”
“But if you do for me what you did for my
brother," I said, “I don't see how that helps to
explain this word, this clue to his address!”
“My dear sir, I am as much in the dark as
you are yourself about the significance of this
word. But I can tell you this, your brother,
thanks to my intervention, found himself placed
in a situation in which he might well have come
across this word. ..."
“Well?" I said impatiently,


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 199
“Well, if we obliged the gentleman as we
obliged his brother, the gentleman might be
taken where his brother was taken, the gentle-
man is young and smart, he might perhaps find
a clue ..."
"Stop talking riddles, for Heaven's sake!”
I cried in exasperation, “and answer my ques-
tions plainly. First, what did you do for my
brother?”
“Your brother had deserted from the front-
that is the most difficult class of business we
have to deal with—we procured him a permis de
séjour for fifteen days and a post in a safe place
where no enquiries would be made after him."
“And then?” I cried, trembling with curios-
ity.
The Jew shrugged his shoulders, waving his
hands to and fro in the air.
"Then he disappeared. I saw him a few days
before he went, and he gave me the instructions
I have repeated to you for anybody who should
come asking for him.”
“But didn't he tell you where he was going?"
. “He didn't even tell me he was going, Herr.
He just vanished.”
“When was this?”
.“Somewhere about the first week in July
... it was the week of the bad news from
France."


200 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
The message was dated July 1st, I remem-
bered.
“I have a good set of Swedish papers,” the
Jew continued, "very respectable timber mer-
chant ... with those one could live in the best
hotels and no one say a word. Or Hungarian
papers, a party rejected medically ... very
safe those, but perhaps the gentleman doesn't
speak Hungarian. That would be essential.”
“I am in the same case as my brother,” I
said, “I must disappear."
“Not a deserter, Herr?” The Jew cringed
at the word.
“Yes," I said. “After all, why not?”.
“I daren't do this kind of business any more,
my dear sir, I really daren't! They are making
it too dangerous.”
“Come, come!” I said, “you were boasting
just now that you could smooth out any difficul-
ties. You can produce me a very satisfactory
passport from somewhere, I am sure!"
“Passport! Out of the question, my dear
sir! Let once one of my passports go wrong
and I am ruined. Oh, no! no passports where
deserters are concerned! I don't like the busi-
ness ... it's not safe! 'At the beginning of the
war ... ah! that was different! Oi, oi, but
they ran from the Yser and from Ypres ! Oi, oi,
and from Verdun! But now the police are more


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 201
watchful. No! It is not worth it! It would
cost you too much money, besides.”
I thought the miserable cur was trying to
raise the price on me, but I was mistaken. He
was frightened: the business was genuinely dis-
tasteful to him.
I tried, as a final attempt to persuade him, an
old trick: I showed him my money. He wav-
ered at once, and, after many objections, pro-
testing to the last, he left the room. He re-
turned with a handful of filthy papers.
“I oughtn't to do it; I know I shall rue it; but
you have overpersuaded me and I liked Herr
Eichenholz, a noble gentleman and free with his
money-see here, the papers of a waiter, Julius
Zimmermann, called up with the Landwehr but
discharged medically unfit, military pay-book
and permis de séjour for fifteen days. These
papers are only a guarantee in case you come
across the police: no questions will be asked
where I shall send you.”
"But a fifteen days' permit!" I said. “What
am I to do at the end of that time?”
“Leave it to me,” Kore said craftily. “I will
get it renewed for you. It will be all right!”
“But in the meantime ..." I objected.
“I place you as waiter with a friend of mine
who is kind to poor fellows like yourself. Your
brother was with him."


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT
203
Udau
sofa. He made me change into it, and then
handed me a threadbare green overcoat and a
greasy green felt hat.
“So!” he said. “Now, if you don't shave for
a day or two, you will look the part to the life!”
-a remark which, while encouraging, was hard-
ly complimentary.
He gave me a muffler to tie round my neck
and lower part of my face and, with that greasy
hat pulled down over my eyes and in those worn
and shrunken clothes, I must say I looked a
pretty villainous person, the very antithesis of
the sleek, well-dressed young fellow that had
entered the flat half an hour before.
“Now, Julius,” said Kore humorously,
"come, my lad, and we will seek out together
the good situation I have found for you."
A horse-cab was at the door and we entered it
together. The Jew chatted pleasantly as we
rattled through the darkness. He compliment-
ed me on my ready wit in deciphering Francis'
message.
“How do you like my idea ?” he said,
"Achilles in his Tent' ... that is the device
of the hidden part of my business-you observe
the parallel, do you not? Achilles holding him-
self aloof from the army and young men like
yourself who prefer the gentle pursuits of peace
to the sterner profession of war! Clients of


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 205
the end. Most of the tables were occupied, and
there was almost as much noise as smoke in the
place.
A woman's voice screamed: "Shut the door,
can't you, I'm freezing!" I obeyed and, fol-
lowing Kore to a table, sat down. A man in
his shirt-sleeves, who was pulling beer at the
bar, left his beer-engine and, coming across the
room to Kore, greeted him cordially, and asked
him what we would take.
Kore nudged me with his elbow.
“We'll take a Boonekamp each, Haase,” he
said.


CHAPTER XIV
CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S
17 ORE presently retired to an inner room
with the man in shirt-sleeves, whom I
judged to be the landlord, and in a
little the flaxen-haired lady at the bar beckoned
me over and bade me join them.
“This is Julius Zimmermann, the young man
I have spoken of," said the Jew; then turning
to me:
“Herr Haase is willing to take you on as
waiter here on my recommendation, Julius. See
that you do not make me repent of my kind-
ness!"
Here the man in shirt-sleeves, a great, fat fel-
low with a bullet head and a huge double chin,
chuckled loudly.
“Kolossal!” he cried. "Herr Kore loves his
joke! Ausgezeichnet!” And he wagged his
head roguishly at me.
· On that Kore took his leave, promising to look
200


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S 207
in and see how I was faring in a few days' time.
The landlord opened a low door in the corner
and revealed a kind of large cupboard, window-
less and horribly stale and stuffy, where there
were two unsavory-looking beds.
“You will sleep here with Otto,” said the
landlord. Pointing to a dirty white apron lying
on one of the beds, he bade me take off my over-
coat and jacket and put it on.
“It was Johann's,” he said, “but Johann
won't want it any more. A good lad, Johann,
but rash. I always said he would come to a bad
end." And he laughed noisily.
“You can go and help with the waiting now,"
he went on. “Otto will show you what to do!" :
And so I found myself, within twenty-four
hours, spy, male nurse and waiter in turn.
I am loth to dwell on the degradation of the
days that followed. That cellar tavern was a
foul sink of iniquity, and in serving the dregs
of humanity that gathered nightly there I felt
I had indeed sunk to the lowest depths. The
place was a regular thieves' kitchen . . . what
is called in the hideous Yiddish jargon that is
the criminal slang of modern Germany a
“Kaschemme.” Never in my life have I seen
such brutish faces as those that leered at me
nightly through the smoke haze as I shuffled
from table to table in my mean German clothes.


208 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Gallows' birds, sneak thieves, receivers, bullies,
prostitutes and harpies of every description
came together every evening in Herr Haase's
beer-cellar. Many of the men wore the soiled
and faded field-gray of the soldier back from the
front, and in looking at their sordid, valpine
faces, inflamed with drink, I felt I could fathom
the very soul of Belgium's misery.
The conversation was all of crime and deeds of
violence. The men back from the front told
gloatingly of rapine and feastings in lonely
Belgian villages or dwelt ghoulishly on the hor-
rors of the battlefield, the mounds of decaying
corpses, the ghastly mutilations they had seen
on the dead. There were tales, too, of "ven-
geance” wreaked on “the treacherous English.”
One story, in particular, of the fate of a Scot-
tish sergeant ..."der Hochländer” they
called him in this oft-told tale . . . still makes
me quiver with impotent rage when I think of it.
One evening the name of the Hotel Esplan-
ade caught my ear. I approached the table and
found two flashily dressed bullies and a be-
draggled drab from the streets talking in ad-
miration of my exploit.
“Clubfoot met his match that time,” the
woman cried. “The dirty dog! But why didn't
this English spy make a job of it and kill the
scum? Pah!"


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S 209
And she spat elegantly into the sawdust on
the floor.
“I wouldn't be in that fellow's shoes for some-
thing," muttered one of the men. “No one ever
had the better of Clubfoot yet. Do you remem-
ber Meinhardt, Franz? He tried to cheat Club-
foot, and we know what happened to him!”
“They're raking the whole city for this Eng-
lishman,” answered the other man. “Vogel,
who works for Section Seven, you know the man
I mean, was telling me. They've done every ho-
tel in Berlin and the suburbs, but they haven't
found him. They raided Bauer's in the Favori-
ten-Strasse last night. The Englishman wasn't
there, but they got three or four others they were
looking for–Fritz and another deserter includ-
ed. I was nearly there myself!"
I was always hearing references of this kind
to my exploit. I was never spoken of except in
terms of admiration, but the name of Clubfoot-
der Stelze-excited only execration and terror.
I lived in daily fear of a raid at Haase's. Why
the place had escaped so long, with all that riff-
raff assembled there nightly, I couldn't imagine.
It was one of those defects in German organiza-
tion which puzzle the best of us at times. In the
meantime, I was powerless to escape. The first
thing Haase had done was to take away my pa-
pers-to send them to the police, as he explained


210 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
-but he never gave them back, and when I asked
for them he put me off with an excuse.
I was a virtual prisoner in the place. On my
feet from morning till night, I had indeed few
opportunities for going out; but once, during a
slack time in the afternoon, when I broached the
subject to the landlord, he refused harshly to let
me out of his sight.
“The street is not healthy for you just now.
You would be a danger to yourself and to all of
us!” he said.
My life in that foul den was a burden to me.
The living conditions were unspeakable. Otto,
a pale and ill-tempered consumptive, compelled,
like me, to rise in the darkness of the dawn,
never washed, and his companionship in the
stuffy hole where we slept was offensive beyond
belief. He openly jeered at my early morning
journeys out to a narrow, stinking court, where
I exulted in the ice-cold water from the pump.
And the food! It was only when I saw the mean
victuals—the coarse and often tainted horse-
flesh, the unappetizing war-bread, the coffee sub-
stitute, and the rest—that I realized how Ger-
many was suffering, though only through her
poor as yet, from the British blockade. That
thought used to help to overcome the nausea
with which I sat down to eat.
Domestic life at Haase's was a hell upon


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S 211
earth. Haase himself was a drunken bully, who
made advances to every woman he met, and
whose complicated intrigues with the feminine
portion of his clientèle led to frequent scenes
with the fair-haired Hebe who presided at the
bar and over his household. It was she and
Otto who fared daily forth to take their places
in the long queues that waited for hours with
food cards outside the provision shops.
These trips seemed to tell upon her temper,
which would flash out wrathfully at meal-times,
when Haase began his inevitable grumbling
about the food. As Otto took a malicious
delight in these family scenes, I was frequently
called upon to assume the rôle of peace-maker.
More than once I intervened to save Madame
from the violence she had called down upon her-
self by the sharpness of her tongue. She was a
poor, faded creature, and the tragedy of it all
was that she was in love with this degraded
bully. She was grateful to me for my good of-
fices, I think, for, though she hardly ever ad-
dressed me, her manner was always friendly.
These days of dreary squalor would have been
unbearable if it had not been for my elucidation
of the word Boonekamp, which was said to hold
the clue to my brother's address. On the wall in
the cubby-hole where I slept was a tattered
advertisement card of this apéritif-for such is


212 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
the preparation-proclaiming it to be “Ger-
many's Best Cordial.” As I undressed at night,
I often used to stare at this placard, wondering
what connection Boonekamp could possibly
have with my brother. I determined to take the
first opportunity of examining the card itself.
One morning, while Otto was out in the queue at
the butcher's, I slipped away from the cellar to
our sleeping-place and, lighting my candle, took
down the card and examined it closely. It was
perfectly plain, red letters on a green back-
ground in front, white at the back. .
As I was replacing the card on the nail I saw
some writing in pencil on the wall where the
card had hung. My heart seemed to stand still
with the joy of my discovery. For the writing
was in my brother's neat, artistic hand, the
words were English, and, best of all, my broth-
er's initials were attached. This is what I read:
(Facsimile.)
5.7.16.
“You will find me at the Café Regina, Düssel-
dorf.-F. 0.”
After that I felt I could bear with everything.
The message awakened hope that was fast dying
in my heart. At least on July 5th, Francis was
alive. To that fact I clung as to a sheet-anchor.
It gave me courage for the hardest part of all


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S 213
my experiences in Germany, those long days of
waiting in that den of thieves. For I knew I
must be patient. Presently, I hoped, I might
extract my papers from Haase or persuade
Kore, when he came back to see me, to give me
a permit that would enable me to get to Düssel-
dorf. But the term of my permit was fast run-
ning out and the Jew never came.
There were often moments when I longed to
ask Haase or one of the others about the time
my brother had served in that place. But I
feared to draw attention to myself. No one
asked any questions of me (questions as to per-
sonal antecedents were discouraged at Haase's),
and, as long as I remained the unpaid, useful
drudge I felt that my desire for obscurity would
be respected. Desultory questions about my
predecessors elicited no information about
Francis. The Haase establishment seemed to
have had a succession of vague and shadowy re-
tainers.
Only about Johann, whose apron I.wore, did
Otto become communicative.
“A stupid fellow!” he declared. “He was
well off here. Haase liked him, the customers
liked him, especially the ladies. But he must
fall in love with Frau Hedwig (the lady at the
bar), then he quarreled with Haase and threat-
ened him-you know, about customers who


214 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
avunuy.
haven't got their papers in order. The next
time Johann went out, they arrested him. And
he was shot at Spandau !”
“Shot?” I exclaimed. “Why?"
"As a deserter.”
“Ach! was! But he had a deserter's papers
in his pockets . . . his own had vanished. Ach!
it's a bad thing to quarrel with Haase!”
I made a point of keeping on the right side of
the landlord after that. By my unfailing dili-
gence I even managed to secure his grudging
approval, though he was always ready to fly
into a passion at the least opportunity.
One evening about six o'clock a young man,
whom I had never seen among our regular cus-
tomers, came down the stairs from the street and
asked for Haase, who was asleep on the sofa in
the inner room. At the sight of the youth, Frau
Hedwig jumped off her perch behind the bar and
vanished. She came back directly and, ignoring
me, conducted the young man into the inner
room, where he remained for about half an hour.
Then he reappeared again, accompanied by Frau
Hedwig, and went off.
I was shocked by the change in the appearance
of the woman. Her face was pale, her eyes red
with weeping, and her eyes kept wandering to-
wards the door. It was a slack time of the day
within and the cellar was free of customers.
VU


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S
215
"You look poorly, Frau Hedwig," I said.
"Trouble with Haase again?”
She looked up at me and shook her head, her
eyes brimming over. A tear ran down the rouge
on her cheek.
“I must speak,” she said. “I can't bear this
suspense alone. You are a kind young man.
You are discreet. Julius, there is trouble brew-
ing for us!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. A forebod-
ing of evil rose within me.
“Kore!” she whispered.
“Kore?” I echoed. "What of him?"
She looked fearfully about her.
“He was taken yesterday morning,” she said.
“Do you mean arrested?” I exclaimed, un-
willing to believe the staggering news.
“They entered his apartment early in the
morning and seized him in bed. Ach! it is
dreadful!” And she buried her face in her
hands.
“But surely," I added soothingly, though
with an icy fear at my heart, “there is no need
to despair. What is an arrest to-day with all
these regulations. ..."
The woman raised her face, pallid beneath its
paint, to mine.
“Kore was shot at Moabit Prison this morn-
ing,” she said in a low voice. "That young man


216 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
brought the news just now.” Then she added
breathlessly, her words pouring out in a tor-
rent:
“You don't know what this means to us.
Haase had dealings with this Jew. If they have
shot him, it is because they have found out from
him all they want to know. That means our
ruin, that means that Haase will go the same
way as the Jew.
“But Haase is stubborn, foolhardy. The mes-
senger warned him that a raid might be expect-
ed here at any moment. I have pleaded with
him in vain. He believes that Kore has split;
he believes the police may come, but he says
they daren't touch him: he has been too useful
to them: he knows too much. Ach, I am afraid!
I am afraid!”
Haase's voice sounded from the inner room.
“Hedwig!” he called.
The woman hastily dried her eyes and dis-
appeared through the door.
The coast was clear, if I wanted to escape,
but where could I go, without a paper or pass-
port, a hunted man?
The news of Kore's arrest and execution
haunted me. Of course, the man was in a most
perilous trade, and had probably been playing
the game for years. But suppose they had


218 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
say he looked game. In his hand he carried my
papers.
“Here you are, my lad,” he said in quite a
friendly tone, "put 'em in your pocket-you
may want 'em to-night.”
I glanced at the papers before I followed his
advice.
He noted my action and laughed.
“They have told you about Johann," he said.
“Never fear, Julius, you and I are good
friends."
The papers were those of Julius Zimmermann
all right.
We were having supper at one of the tables in
the front room—there were only a couple of
customers, as it was so early—when a man, a
regular visitor of ours, came down the stairs
hurriedly. He went straight over to Haase and
spoke into his ear.
"Mind yourself, Haase," I heard him say.
“Do you know who had Kore arrested and shot?
It was Clubfoot. There is more in this than we
know. Mind yourself and get out! In an hour
or so it may be too late."
Then he scurried away, leaving me dazed.
“By God!” said the landlord, bringing a
great fist down on the table so that the glasses
rang, “they won't touch me. Not the devil
himself will make me leave this house


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S
219
before they come, if coming they are!”
The woman burst into tears, while Otto
blinked his watery eyes in terror. I sat and
looked at my plate, my heart too full for words.
it was bitter to have dared so much to get this
far and then find the path blocked, as it seemed,
by an insuperable barrier. They were after me
all right: the mention of Clubfoot's name, the
swift, stern retribution that had befallen Kore,
made that certain and I could do nothing. That
cellar was a cul-de-sac, a regular trap, and I
knew that if I stirred a foot from the house I
should fall into the hands of those men keeping
their silent vigil in the street.
Therefore, I must wait, as calmly as I might,
and see what the evening would bring forth.
Gradually the cellar filled up as people drifted
in, but many familiar faces, I noticed, were
missing. Evidently the ill tidings had spread.
Once a man looked in for a glass of beer and
drifted out again, leaving the door open. As I
was closing it, I heard a muffled exclamation
and the sound of a scuffle at the head of the
stairs. It was so quietly done that nobody be-
low, save myself, knew what had happened.
The incident showed me that the watch was well
kept.
The evening wore on-interminably, as it
seemed to me. I darted to and fro from the bar,


220 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
i
laden with mugs of beer and glasses of schnaps,
incessantly, up and down. But I never failed,
whenever there came a pause in the orders, to
see that my journey finished somewhere in the
neighborhood of the door. A faint hope was
glimmering in my brain.
Until the end of my life, that interminable
evening in the beer-cellar will remain stamped
in my memory. I can still see the scene in its
every detail, and I know I shall carry the picture
with me to the grave; the long, low room with
its blackened ceiling, the garish yellow gaslight,
the smoke haze, the crowded tables, Otto, shuf-
fling hither and thither with his mean and sulky
air, Frau Hedwig, preoccupied at her desk, red-
eyed, a graven image of woe, and Haase, pre-
siding over the beer-engine, silent, defiant, calm,
but watchful every time the door opened.
When at last the blow fell, it came suddenly.
A trampling of feet on the stairs, a great blow-
ing of whistles ... then the door was burst
open just as everybody in the cellar sprang to
their feet amid exclamations and oaths from
the men and shrill screams from the women.
Outlined in the doorway stood Clubfoot, ma-
jestic, authoritative, wearing some kind of little
skull-cap, such as duelling students wear, over
a black silk handkerchief bound about his head.
At the sight of the man the hubbub ceased on


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE'S
221
light went on the the room
.
the instant. All were still save Haase, whose
bull-like voice roaring for silence broke on the
quiet of the room with the force of an explosion.
I was in my corner by the door, pressed back
against the coats and hats hanging on the wall.
In front of me a frieze of frightened faces
screened me from observation. Quickly, I
slipped off my apron.
Clubfoot, after casting a cursory glance round
the room, strode its length toward the bar where,
Haase stood, a crowd of plain-clothes men and
policemen at his heels. Then quite suddenly the
light went out, plunging the place into dark-
ness. Instantly the room was in confusion;
women screamed; a voice, which I recognized as
Clubfoot's, bawled stentorianly for lights ...
the moment had come to act.
I grabbed a hat and coat from the hall, got
into them somehow, and darted to the door. In
the dim light shining down the stairs from a
street lamp outside, I saw a man at the door.
Apparently he was guarding it.
“Back!” he cried, as I stepped up to him.
I flashed in his eyes the silver star I held in
my hand.
“The Chief wants lanterns!” I said low in
his ear.
He grabbed my hand holding the badge and
lowered it to the light.
I recognized as


CHAPTER XV
THE WAITER AT THE CAFÉ REGINA
CALCULATED that I had at least two
hours, at most three, in which to get clear
of Berlin. However swiftly Clubfoot
might act, it would take him certainly an hour
and a half, I reckoned, from the discovery of my
flight from Haase's to warn the police at the
railway stations to detain me. If I could lay
a false trail I might at the worst prolong this
period of grace; at the best I might mislead him
altogether as to my ultimate destination, which
was, of course, Düsseldorf. The unknown quan-
tity in my reckonings was the time it would take
Clubfoot to send out a warning all over Ger-
many to detain Julius Zimmermann, waiter and
deserter, wherever and whenever apprehended.
At the first turning I came to after leaving
Haase's, tram-lines ran across the street. A
tram was waiting, bound in a southerly direc-
tion, where the center of the city lay. I jumped
223


224 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT.
on to the front platform beside the woman
driver. It is fairly dark in front and the
conductor cannot see your face as you pay your
fare through a trap in the door leading to the
interior of the tram. I left the tram at Unter
den Linden and walked down some side streets
until I came across a quiet-looking café. There
I got a railway guide and set about reviewing
my plans.
It was ten minutes to twelve. A man in my
position would in all probability make for the
frontier. So, I judged, Clubfoot must calculate,
though, I fancied, he must have wondered why
I had not long since attempted to escape back
to England. Düsseldorf was on the main road
to Holland, and it would certainly be the more
prudent course, say, to make for the Rhine and
travel on to my destination by a Rhine steamer.
But time was the paramount factor in my case.
By leaving immediately—that very night-for
Düsseldorf I might possibly reach there before
the local authorities had had time to receive the
warning to be on the look-out for a man answer-
ing to my description. If I could leave behind
in Berlin a really good false clue, it was just
possible that Clubfoot might follow it up before
taking general dispositions to secure my arrest
if that clue failed. I decided I must gamble on
this hypothesis.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- -


226 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
was 12.15 as I walked into the hall of the An-
halt station.
Remembering the ruse which the friendly
guide at Rotterdam had taught me, I be.
gan by purchasing a platform ticket. Then I
looked about for an official upon whom I could
suitably impress my identity. Presently I es-
pied a pompous-looking fellow in a bright blue
uniform and scarlet cap, some kind of junior
stationmaster, I thought.
I approached him and, raising my hat, po-
litely asked him if he could tell me when there
was a train leaving for Munich.
“The express goes at 12.30,” he said, “but
only first and second class, and you'll have to
pay the supplementary charge. The slow train
is not till 5.49.”
I assumed an expression of vexation.
“I suppose I must go by the express," I said.
“Can you tell me where the booking-office is?”
The official pointed to a pigeon-hole and I
took care to speak loud enough for him to hear
me ask for a second-class ticket, single, to Mu-
nich.
I walked upstairs and presented my Munich
ticket to the collector at the barrier. Then I
hurried past the main-line platforms over the
suburban side, where I gave up my platform
ticket and descended again to the street.


THE WAITER AT THE CAFÉ REGINA 227
It was just on the half-hour as I came out of
the station. Not a cab to be seen! I hastened
as fast as my legs would carry me until, breath-
less and panting, I reached the Potsdam ter-
minus. The clock over the station pointed to
12.39.
A long queue, composed mostly of soldiers
returning to Belgium and the front, stood in
front of the booking-office. The military were
I chafed at the delay, but it was actually this
getting my ticket for Düsseldorf without leav-
ing any clue behind.
A big, bearded Landsturm man with a kind
face was at the pigeon-hole.
“I am very late for my train, my friend," I
said, “would you get me a third-class single for
note.
“Right you are," he answered readily.
“There,” he said, handing me my ticket and
a handful of change, "and lucky you are to be
going to the Rhine. I'm from the Rhine myself
and now I'm going back to guarding the bridges
in Belgium!”
I thanked him and wished him luck. Here
at least was a witness who was not likely to
trouble me. And with a thankful heart I bolted


228 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
-
--
--
--
-
--
on to the platform and caught the train.
Third-class travel in Germany is not a
hobby to be cultivated if your means allow the
luxury of better accommodation. The travel-
ling German has a habit of taking off his boots
when he journeys in the train by night-and
a carriageful of lower middle-class Huns, thus
unshod, in the temperature at which railway.
compartments are habitually kept in Germany,
is an environment which makes neither for com-
fort nor for sleep.
The atmosphere, indeed, was so unbearable
that I spent most of the night in the corridor.
Here I was able to destroy the papers of Julius
Zimmermann, waiter . . . I felt I was in greater
danger whilst I had them on me . . . and to
assure myself that my precious document was
in its usual place-in my portfolio. It was then
I made the discovery, annihilating at the first
shock, that my silver badge had disappeared. I
could not remember what I had done with it in
the excitement of my escape from Haase’s. I
remembered having it in my hand and showing
it to the police at the top of the stairs, but after
that my mind was a blank. I could only imagine
I must have carried it unconsciously in my hand
and then dropped it. I looked at the place where
it had been clasped on my braces: it was not
there and I searched all my pockets in vain..


230 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
buttonholes. There was a band on the
platform and a huge choir of men who
bawled a stentorian-voiced hymn of greeting.
“Düsseldorf” was the name printed on the
station lamps.
All the passengers, save the members of the
choral society, had left the train, apparently,
for every carriage door stood open. I sprang ·
to my feet and let myself go with the stream of
men. Thus I swept out of the train and right
into the midst of the jostling crowd of bands-
men, singers and spectators on the platform. I
stood with the new arrivals until the hymn was
ended and thus solidly encadrés by the Düssel-
dorfers, we drifted out through the barrier into:
the station courtyard. There brakes were wait-
ing into which the jolly choristers, guests and
hosts, clambered noisily. But I walked straight
on into the streets, scarcely able to realize that
no one had questioned me, that at last, unhin-
dered, I stood before my goal.
Düsseldorf is a bright, clean town with a
touch of good taste in its public buildings to re-
mind one that this busy, industrial city has
found time even while making money to have
called into being a school of art of its own. It
was a delightful morning with dazzling sun-
shine and an eager nip in the air that spoke
of the swift, deep river that bathes the city


THE WAITER AT THE CAFÉ REGINA 231
walls. I revelled in the clear, cold atmosphere
after the foulness of the drinking-den and the
stifling heat of the journey. I exulted in the
sense of liberty I experienced at having once
more eluded the grim clutches of Clubfoot.
Above all, my heart sang within me at the
thought of an early meeting with Francis. In
the mood I was in, I would admit no possibility
of disappointment now. Francis and I would
come together at last.
I came upon a public square presently and
there facing me was a great, big café, white and
new and dazzling, with large plate-glass win-
dows and rows of tables on a covered varandah
outside. It was undoubtedly a “kolossal”
establishment after the best Berlin style. So
that there might be no mistake about the name
it was placarded all over the front of the place
in gilt letters three feet high on glass panels
Café Regina.
It was about nine o'clock in the morning and
at that early hour I had the place to myself.
I felt very small, sitting at a tiny table, with
tables on every side of me, stretching away as it
were into the Ewigkeit, in a vast white room
with mural paintings of the crassest school of
impressionism.
I ordered a good, substantial breakfast and
whiled away the time while it was coming by


232 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
glancing at the morning paper which the waiter
brought me.
My eyes ran down the columns without my
heeding what I read, for my thoughts were
busy with Francis. When did he come to the
café? How was he living at Düsseldorf
Suddenly, I found myself looking at a name,
I knew ... it was in the personal paragraphs.
"Lieut.-General Count von Boden,” the para-
graph ran, “Aide-de-Camp to H.M. the Emper-
or, has been placed on the retired list owing to
ill-health. General von Boden has left for Ab-
bazia, where he will take up his permanent
residence.” There followed the usual biograph-
ical notes.
Of a truth, Clubfoot was a power in the land.
I ate my breakfast at a table by the open
door, and surveyed the busy life of the square
where the pigeons circled in the sunshine. A
waiter stood on the verandah idly watching the
birds as they pecked at the stones. I was struck
with the profound melancholy depicted in his
face. His cheeks were sunken and he had a
pinched look which I had observed in the fea-
tures of most of the customers at Haase's. I
set it down to the insufficient feeding which is .
general among the lower classes in Germany
to-day.
But in addition to this man's wasted appear-


THE WAITER AT THE CAFÉ REGINA 233
ance, his eyes were hollow, there were deep
lines about his mouth and he wore a haggard
look that had something strangely pathetic
about it. His air of brooding sadness seemed to
attract me, and I found my eyes continually
wandering back to his face,
And then, without warning, through some
mysterious whispering of the blood, the truth
came to me that this was my brother. I don't
know whether it was a passing mood reflected
in his face or the shifting lights and shadows in
his eyes that lifted the veil. I only know that
through those features ravaged by care and
suffering and in spite of them I caught a glimpse
of the brother I had come to seek.
I rattled a spoon on the table and called soft-
ly out to the verandah. “Kellner!”
The man turned.
I beckoned to him. He came over to my table.
He never recognized me, so dull was he with dis-
appointment ... me with my unshaven, un-
kempt appearance and in my mean German
shoddy ... but stood silently, awaiting my bid-
ding
“Francis,” I said softly ... and I spoke in
German ..."Francis, don't you know me?”
He was magnificent, strong and resourceful
in his joy at our meeting as he had been in his
months of weary waiting.


234 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Only his mouth quivered a little as instantly
his hands busied themselves with clearing
“Jawohl!” he answered in a perfectly emo-
tionless voice.
And then he smiled and in a flash the old
Francis stood before me.
“Not a word now," he said in German as he
cleared away the breakfast. “I am off this af-
ternoon. Meet me on the river promenade by
the Schiller statue at a quarter past two and
we'll go for a walk. Don't stay here now but
come back and lunch in the restaurant . .. it's
always crowded and pretty safe!"
Then he called out into the void :
“Twenty-six wants to pay!”
Such was my meeting with my brother.


CHAPTER XVI
A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE
THAT afternoon Francis and I walked out
along the banks of the swiftly flowing
Rhine until we were far beyond the
city. Anxious though I was that he should
reveal to me that part of his life which lay
hidden beneath those lines of suffering in his
face, he made me tell my story first. So I
unfolded to him the extraordinary series of ad-
ventures that had befallen me since the night I
had blundered upon the trail of a great secret
in that evil hotel at Rotterdam.
Francis did not once interrupt the flow of my
narrative. He listened with the most tense in-
terest but with a growing concern which be-
trayed itself clearly on his face. At the end of
my story, I silently handed to him the half of
the stolen letter I had seized from Clubfoot at
the Hotel Esplanade.
“Keep it, Francis," I said. “It's safer with 1
235


236 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
a respectable waiter like you than with a hunted
outcast like myself !”
My brother smiled wanly, but his face as-
sumed the look of grave anxiety with which he
had heard my tale. He scrutinized the slips of
paper very closely, then tucked them away in
a letter-case, which he buttoned up in his pocket.
“Fortune is a strange goddess, Des," he
said, his weary eyes roving out over the turgid,
yellow stream, “and she has been kind to yon,
though, God knows, you have played a man's
part in all this. She has placed in your pos-
session something for which at least five men
have died in vain, something that has filled my
thoughts, sleeping and waking, for more than
half a year. What you have told me throws
a good deal of light upon the mystery which I
came to this cursed country to elucidate, but it
also deepens the darkness which still envelops
many points in the affair.
“You know there are issues in this game of
ours, old man, that stand even higher than the
confidence that there has always been between
us two. That is why I wrote to you so seldom
out in France I could tell you nothing about
my work: that is one of the rules of our game.
But now you have broken into the scramble
yourself, I feel that we are partners, so I will
tell you all I know.


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 237.
“Listen, then. Some time about the begin-
ning of the year a letter written by a German
interned at one of the camps in England was
stopped by the Camp Censor. This German
went by the name of Schulte: he was arrested
at a house in Dalston the day after we declared
war on Germany. There was a good reason for
this, for our friend Schulte-We don't know his
real name—was known to my Chief as one of
the most daring and successful spies that ever
operated in the British Isles.
“Therefore, a sharp eye was kept on his cor-
respondence, and one day this letter was seized.
It was, I believe, perfectly harmless to the eye,
but the expert to whom it was eventually sub-
mitted soon detected a conventional code in
the chatty phrases about the daily life of the
camp. It proved to be a communication from
Schulte to a third party relating to a certain
letter which, apparently, the writer imagined the
third party had a considerable interest in ac-
quiring. For he offered to sell this letter to
the third party, mentioning a sum so prepos-
terously high that it attracted the earnest atten-
tion of our Intelligence people. On half the sum
mentioned being paid into the writer's account
at a certain bank in London, the letter went on
to say, the writer would forward the address at
which the object in question would be found.


238 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
"It was a simple matter to send Schulte a let-
ter in return, agreeing to his terms, and to have
the payment made, as desired, into the bank he
mentioned. His communication in reply to this
was duly stopped. The address he gave was
that of a house situated on the outskirts of
Cleves.
“We had no idea what this letter was, but
its apparent value in the eyes of the shrewd Mr.
Schulte made it highly desirable that we should
obtain possession of it without delay. Four of
us were selected for this dangerous mission of
getting into Germany and fetching it, by hook
or by crook, from the house at Cleves where it
was deposited. We four were to enter Germany
by different routes and different means and to
converge on Cleves (which is quite close to the
Dutch frontier).
“It would take too long to tell you of the
very exact organization which we worked out
to exclude all risk of failure and the various
schemes we evolved for keeping in touch with
one another though working separately and in
rotation. Nor does it matter very much how .I
got into Germany. The fact is that, at my very
first attempt to get across the frontier, I real-
ized that some immensely powerful force was
working against me.
“I managed it, with half a dozen hairbreadth


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 239
escapes, and I set down my success solely to my
knowledge of German and to that old trick of
mine of German imitations. But I felt every-
where the influence of this unseen hand, enforc-.
ing a meticulous vigilance which it was almost
impossible to escape. I was not surprised, there-
fore, to learn that two of my companions came
to grief at the very outset."
My brother lowered his voice and looked
about him.
“Do you know what happened to those two
gallant fellows?” he said. “Jack Tracy was
found dead on the railway: Herbert Arbuthnot
was discovered hanging in a wood. "Suicide
of an Unknown Individual' was what the Ger-
man papers called it in each case. But I heard
the truth ... never mind how. They were am-
bushed and slaughtered in cold blood.”
“And the third man you spoke of?” I asked.
“Philip Brewster? Vanished, Des . . . van-
ished utterly. I fear he, too, has gone west,
poor chap!”
“Of the whole four of us I was the only one
to reach our objective. There I drew blank.
The letter was not in the hiding-place in-
dicated. I think it never had been or the Huns
would have got it. I felt all the time that they
didn't know exactly where the letter was but
that they anticipated our attempt to get it, hence


242 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“No," replied Francis promptly, "I did not.
But the arrangement was that, if none of us
four men had turned up at Head-quarters by
May 15th, a fifth man should come in and be
at a given rendezvous near the frontier on June
15th. I went to the place on June 15th, but he
never showed up and, though I waited about
for a couple of days, I saw no sign of him. I
made my final attempt to get out and it failed,
so, when I fled to Berlin, I knew that I had cut
off all means of communication with home. As
a last hope, I dashed off that cipher on the spur
of the moment and tucked it into old van U's
invoice.”
“But why "Achilles' with one 'l'?" I asked.
“They knew all about Kore's agency at Head-
quarters, but I didn't dare mention Kore's name
for fear the parcel might be opened. So I pur-
posely spelt ‘Achilles' with one 'l' to draw at-
tention to the code word, so that they should
know where news of me was to be found. It was
devilish smart of you to decipher that, Des!”
Francis smiled at me.
“I meant to stay quietly in Berlin, going daily
between Haase's and the factory and wait, for
a month or two, in case that message got home.
But Kore began to give trouble. At the be-
ginning of July he came to see me and hinted
that the renewal of my permis de séjour would


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 243
cost money. I paid him, but I realized then that
I was absolutely in his power and I had no inten-
tion of being blackmailed. So I made use of his
cupidity to leave a message for the man who, I
hoped, would be coming after me, wrote that
line on the wall under the Boonekamp poster in
that filthy hovel where we slept and came up
here after a job I had heard of at the Café Re-
gina.
“And now, Des, old man,” said my brother,
"you know all that I know!"
"And Clubfoot?”.
“Ah!” said Francis, shaking his head, “there
I think I recognize the hand that has been
against us from the start, though who the man
is, and what his power, I, like you, only know
from what he told you himself. The Germans
are clever enough, as we know from their com-
muniqués, to tell the truth when it suits their
book. I believe that Clubfoot was telling you
the truth in what he said about his mission that
night at the Esplanade.
“You and I know now that the Kaiser wrote
that letter ... we also know that it was ad-
dressed to an influential English friend of Wil-
liam II. You have seen the date . . . Berlin,
July 31st, 1914 ... the eve of the outbreak of
the world war. Even from this half in my
pocket ... and you who have seen both halves


246 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
again, Francis . . . as, please God, we shall !
... there will be no code of honor for him ...
we'll finish him in cold blood as we'd kill a rat!”
My brother thrust out his hand at me and we
clasped hands on it.
Evening was falling and lights were begin.
ning to twinkle from the further bank of the
river.
We stood for a moment in silence with the
river rushing at our feet. Then we turned and
started to tramp back towards the city. Fran-
cis linked his arm in mine.
“And now, Des,” he said in his old affection-
ate way, "tell me some more about Monica!"
Out of that talk germinated in my head the
only plan that seemed to offer us a chance of
escape. I was quite prepared to believe Francis
when he declared that the frontier was at pres-
ent impassable: if the vigilance had been in-
creased before it would be redoubled now that I
had again eluded Clubfoot. We should, there-
fore, have to find some cover where we could
lie doggo until the excitement passed.
You remember that Monica told me, the last
time I had seen her, that she was shortly going
to Schloss Bellevue, a shooting-box belonging
to her husband, to arrange some shoots in con-
nection with the Governmental scheme for put-
ting game on the market. Monica, you will


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE
247
recollect, had offered to take me with her, and
I had fully meant to accompany her but for Ger-
ry's unfortunate persistence in the matter of
my passport.
I now proposed to Francis that we should
avail ourselves of Monica's offer and make for
Castle Bellevue. The place was well suited for
our purpose as it lies near Cleves, and in its
immediate neighborhood is the Reichswald, that
great forest which stretches from Germany,
clear across into Holland. All through my
wanderings, I had kept this forest in the back
of my head as a region which must offer facili-
ties for slipping unobserved across the frontier.
Now I learnt from Francis that he had spent
months in the vicinity of Cleves, and I was not
surprised to find, when I outlined this plan to
him, that he knew the Reichswald pretty well.
"It'll be none too easy to get across through
the forest,” he said doubtfully, “it's very close-
ly patrolled, but I do know of one place wbere
we could lie pretty snug for a day or two wait-
ing for a chance to make a dash. But we have
no earthly chance of getting througao at present:
our clubfooted pal will see to that all right. And
I don't much like the idea of going to Bellevue
either: it will be horribly dangerous for Mon-
ica!”
“I don't think so," I said. “The whole place


248 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
will be overrun with people, guests, servants,
beaters and the like, for these shoots. Both you
and I know German and we look rough enough:
we ought to be able to get an emergency job
· about the place without embarrassing Monica
in the least. I don't believe they will ever
dream of looking for us so close to this fron-
tier. The only possible trail they can pick up
after me in Berlin leads to Munich. Clubfoot
is bound to think I am making for the Swiss
frontier."
Well, the long and the short of it was that my
suggestion was carried, and we resolved to set
out for Bellevue that very night. My brother
declared he would not return to the café: with
the present shortage of men, such desertions
were by no means uncommon, and if he were to
give notice formally it might only lead to em-
barrassing explanations.
So we strolled back to the city in the gather-
ing darkness, bought a map of the Rhine and a
couple of rucksacks and laid in a small stock of
provisions at a great department store, biscuits,
chocolates, some hard sausage and two small
flasks of rum. Then Francis took me to a little
restaurant where he was known and introduced
me to the friendly proprietor, a very jolly old
Rheinländer, as his brother just out of hospi-
tal. I did my country good service, I think, by


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 249
giving a most harrowing account of the terrible
efficiency of the British army on the Somme!
Then we dined and over our meal consulted
the map.
"By the map," I said, “Bellevue should be
about fifty miles from here. My idea is that we
should walk only at night and lie up during the
day, as a room is out of the question for me
without any papers. I think we should keep
away from the Rhine, don't you? as otherwise
we shall pass through Wesel, which is a fortress,
and, consequently, devilish unhealthy for both
of us."
Francis nodded with his mouth full.
“At present we can count on about twelve
hours of darkness," I continued, “so, leaving a
margin for the slight détour we shall make, for
rests and for losing the way, I think we ought
to be able to reach Castle Bellevue on the third
night from this. If the weather holds up, it
won't be too bad, but if it rains, it will be hell-
ish! Now, have you any suggestions?”
My brother acquiesced, as, indeed, he had in
everything I had proposed since we met. Poor
fellow, he had had a roughish time: he seemed
glad to have the direction of affairs taken out
of his hands for a bit.
At half-past seven that evening, our packs
On our backs, we stood on the outskirts of the


252 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
in the sky. Otherwise, there was no sign or
sound of human life.
The gate led into an ornamental garden with
the Castle at the further end. All the windows
were in darkness. We threaded a garden path
leading to the house. It brought us in front of
a glass door. I turned the handle and it yielded
to my grasp.
I whispered to Francis :
“Stay where you are! And if you hear me
shout, fly for your life!”
For, I reflected, the place might be full of
troops. If there were any risk it would be bet-
ter for me to take it since Francis, with his
identity papers, had a better chance than I of
bringing the document into safety.
I opened the glass door and found myself in
a lobby with a door on the right.
I listened again. All was still. I cautiously
opened the door and looked in. As I did so
the place was suddenly flooded with light
and a voice-a voice I had often heard in my
dreams-called out imperiously:
“Stay where you are and put your hands
above your head!”
Clubfoot stood there, a pistol in his great
hand pointed at me.
“Grundt!" I shouted but I did not move.
And Clubfoot laughed.


CHAPTER XVII
FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE
SAW the lights flash up in the room. I
heard Desmond cry out: “Grundt!"
Instantly I flung myself flat on my face in
the flower bed, lest Desmond's shout might have
alarmed the soldiers about the fire. But no one
came; the gardens remained dark and damp and
silent, and I heard no sound from the room in
which I knew my brother to be, in the clutches
of that man.
Desmond's cry pulled me together. It seemed
to arouse me from the lethargy into which I had
sunk during all those months of danger and dis-
appointment. It shook me into life. If I was to
save him, not a moment was to be lost. Clubfoot
would act swiftly, I knew. So must I. But first
I must find out what the situation was, the
meaning of Clubfoot's presence in Monica's
house, of those soldiers in the park. And, above,
all, was Monica herself at the Castle?
253


254 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
I had noticed a little estaminet place on the
road, about a hundred yards before we reached
the Schloss. I might, at least, be able to pick
up something there. Accordingly, I stole across
the garden, scaled the wall again and reached
the road in safety.
The estaminet was full of people, brutish-
looking peasants swilling neat spirits, cattle
drovers and the like. I stood up at the bar and
ordered a double noggin of Korn-a raw
spirit made in these parts from potatoes, very
potent but at least pure. A man in corduroys
and leggings was drinking at the bar, a bluff
sort of chap, who readily entered into conversa-
tion. A casual question of mine about the game
conditions elicited from him the information
that he was an under-keeper at the Castle. It
was a busy time for them, he told me, as four
big shoots had been arranged. The first was to
take place the next day. There were plenty of
birds, and he thought the Frau Gräfin's guests
ought to be satisfied.
I asked him if there was a big party staying
at the Castle. No, he told me, only one gentle-
man besides the officer billeted there, but a lot
of people were coming over for the shoot the
next day, the officers from Cleves and Goch, the
Chief Magistrate from Cleves, and a number of
farmers from round about.


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 255
“I expect you will find the soldiers billeted at
the Castle useful as beaters," I enquired with
a purpose.
The man assented grudgingly. Gamekeepers
are first-class grumblers. But the soldiers were ..
not many. For his part he could do without -
them altogether. They were such terrible
poachers to have about the place, he declared. ·
But what they would do for beaters without
them, he didn't know ... they were very short,
of beaters ... that was a fact.
“I am staying at Cleves," I said, “and I'm
out of a job. I am not long from hospital, and
they've discharged me from the army. I
wouldn't mind earning a few marks as a beater,
and I'd like to see the sport. I used to do a bit
of shooting myself down on the Rhine where I
come from.”
The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his
head. “That's none of my business, getting the
beaters together,” he replied. “Besides, I shall
have the head gamekeeper after me if I go
bringing strangers in. ..."
I ordered another drink for both of us, and
won the man round without much difficulty.
He pouched my five mark note and announced
that he would manage it ... the Frau Gräfin
was to see some men who had offered their
services as beaters after dinner at the Castle


256 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
that evening. He would take me along.
Half an hour later I stood, as one of a group
of shaggy and bedraggled rustics, in a big stone
courtyard outside the main entrance to the
Castle. The head gamekeeper mustered us with
his eye and, bidding us follow him, led the way
under a valted gateway through a massive door
into a small lobby which had apparently been
built into the great hall of the Castle, for it
opened right into it.
We found ourselves in a splendid old feudal
hall, oak-lined and oak-raftered, with lines of
dusty banners just visible in the twilight reign-
ing in the upper part of the vast place. The
modern generation had forborne to desecrate
the fine old room with electric light, and massive
silver candlesticks shed a soft light on the table
set at the far end of the hall, where dinner, ap-
parently, was just at an end.
Three people were sitting at the table, a wom-
an at the head, who, even before I had taken in
the details I have just set down, I knew to be
Monica, though her back was towards me. On
one side of the table was a big, heavy man whom
I recognized as Clubfoot, on the other side a
pale slip of a lad in officer's uniform with only
one arm ... Schmalz, no doubt.
A servant said something to Monica, who,
asking permission of her companions by a ges-


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 257
ture, left the table and came across the hall. To
my surprise, she was dressed in deepest black
with linen cuffs. Her face was pale and set, and
there was a look of fear and suffering in her
eyes that wrung my very heart.
I had shuffled into the last place of the row in
which the head keeper had ranged us. Monica
spoke a word or two to each of the men, who
shambled off in turn with low obeisances.
Directly she stopped in front of me I knew she
had recognized me I felt it rather, for she made
no sign-though the time I had had in Germany
had altered my appearance, I dare say, and I
must have looked pretty rough with my three
days' beard and muddy clothes.
"Ah!” she said with all her languor de grande
dame, "you are the man of whom Heinrich
spoke. You have just come out of hospital, I
think?”
“Beg the Frau Gräfin's pardon," I mumbled
out in the thick patois of the Rhine which I had
learnt at Bonn, “I served with the Herr Graf
in Galicia, and I thought maybe the Frau Grä-
fin ..."
She stopped me with a gesture.
“Herr Doktor!" she called to the dinner-
table.
By Jove! this girl had grit: her pluck was
splendid.


258 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Clubfoot came stumping over, all smiles after
his food and smoking a long cigar that smelt
delicious.
“Frau Gräfin?” he queried, glancing at me.
“This is a man who served under my husband
in Galicia. He is ill and out of work, and wishes
me to help him. I should wish, therefore, to
see him in my sitting-room, if you will allow
me. ..."
"But, Frau Gräfin, most certainly. There
surely was no need ...".
“Johann!” Monica called the servant I had
seen before, “take this man into the sitting-
room!"
The servant led the way across the hall into
a snugly furnished library with a dainty writ-
ing-desk and pretty chintz curtains. Monica
followed and sat down at the desk.
“Now tell me what you wish to say ..."
she began in German as the servant left the
room, but almost as soon as he had gone she
was on her feet, clasping my hands.
“Francis !” she whispered in English in a
great sob, “oh, Francis! what have they done
to you to make you look like that?”
I gripped her wrist tightly.
“Frau Gräfin,” I said in German, still in that
hideous patois, "you must be calm." And I
whispered in English in her ear:


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 259
“Monica, be brave! And talk German what-
ever you do."
She regained her self-possession at once.
“I understand," she answered, sitting down
at her desk again “it is more prudent."
And for the rest of the time we spoke in Ger-
man.
“Desmond?" I asked.
“Locked up in Grundt's bedroom,” she re-
plied. “I met them pushing him along the cor-
ridor-it was horrible! Grundt won't let him
out of his sight. Oh, it was madness to have
come. If only I could have warned you!”
“What is Grundt doing here?” I asked.
"And those soldiers and that officer?"
“My dear,” she answered, and her eyes
flashed mischief in a sudden change of mood,
“I'm in preventive arrest!”
“But, Monica. ..."
“Listen! Gerry and that spying man-servant
of his made trouble. When Des went off that
evening and didn't come back, Gerry insisted
that we should notify the police. He made an
awful scene, then the valet chipped in, and from
what he said I knew he meant mischief. I didn't
dare trust Gerry with the truth, so I let him send
· a note to the police. They came round and
asked a lot of questions and went away again,
so I thought we'd heard the last of it and came


260 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
up here. Gerry wouldn't come. He's gone off
to Baden-Baden on some new cure.
“About a week ago the Chief Magistrate at
Cleves, who is an old friend of ours, motored
over, and after a lot of talk, blurted out that I
was to consider myself under arrest, and that an
officer and a detachment of men from Goch were
coming over to guard the house. The magis-
trate man would have told me anything I wanted
to know, but he knew nothing: he simply car-
ried out his orders. Then the lieutenant and
his men arrived, and since that time I have been
a prisoner in the house and grounds. I was
terribly scared about Des until Grundt arrived
suddenly, two nights ago, and I saw at once
by his face that Des was still at large. But,
Francis, that Clubfoot man came here to catch
Des . . . and he has simply walked into the
trap.”
“And Desmond?" I asked. “What is Club-
foot going to do about him?”.
"He was with Des for about an hour in his
room, and I heard him tell Schmalz he would
'try again' after dinner. Oh, Francis, I am
frightened of that man ... not a word has he
said to me about my knowing Desmond-not a
word about my harboring Des in Berlin . ..
but he knows everything, and he watches me
the whole time."


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 263
“I will see that Des gets your message,”
Monica replied, "for I will take it myself.”
“Francis,"... she spoke almost in a whis-
per . . .“my life in this country is over,” ...
and she touched her widow's weeds. ...“Karl
was killed at Predeal three weeks ago. ... You
know as well as I do that I am involved in this
affair as much as you and Des . . . and I will
share the risk if only you will take me away with
you ... that is if you ..." She faltered.
I heard the chairs scrape in the corner of the
hall where the dinner-party was breaking up.
“The Frau Gräfin has only to command," I
said. “The Frau Gräfin knows I have been
waiting for years. ...".
Clubfoot was crossing towards the open door,
“... I never expected to find the Frau Gräfin
so gracious. ... I had never hoped that the
Frau Gräfin would be willing to do so much for
me; the Frau Gräfin has made me very happy.”
Clubfoot stood on the threshold and listened
to my halting speech.
“You can bring your things in when you come
to-morrow ..." Monica said. "The keeper
will tell you what time you must be here."
Then she dismissed me, but as I went I heard
her say: "Herr Doktor! Can I have a word
with you?"


CHAPTER XVII
I GO ON WITH THE STORY
WAS in the billiard-room of the Castle, &
dusty place, obviously little used, for it
smelt of damp. A fire was burning in the
grate, however, and on a table in the corner,
which was littered with papers, stood a dispatch
box.
Clubfoot wore a dinner-coat and, as he
laughed, his white expanse of shirt-front heaved
to the shaking of his deep chest. For a moment,
however, I had little thought of him or the ugly-
looking Browning he held in his fist. My ears
were strained for any sound that might betray
Francis' presence in the garden. But all re-
mained silent as the grave.
Clubfoot, still chuckling audibly, walked over
to me. I thought he was going to shoot me, he
came so straight and so fast, but it was only to
get behind me and shut the door, driving me,
as he did so, farther into the room.
264


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 265
The door by which he had entered stood open.
Without taking his eyes off me or deflecting his
weapon from its aim, he called out:
“Schmalz!”
A light step resounded, and the one-armed
lieutenant tripped into the room. When he saw
me, he stopped dead. Then he softly began to
circle round me with a mincing step, murmur-
ing to himself: “So! So!”.
“Good evening, Dr. Semlin!” he said in Eng-
lish. “Say, I'm mighty glad to see you! Well,
Okewood, dear old boy, here we are again.
What? Herr Julius Zimmermann ..." and
he broke into German, "es freut mich!”
I could have killed him where he stood,
maimed though he was, for his fluency in the
American and English idiom alone.
“Search him, Schmalz!" commanded Club-
foot curtly.
Schmalz ran the fingers of his gne arm over
my pockets, flinging my portfolio on the billiard-
table towards Clubfoot, and the other articles as
they came to light . .. my pistol, watch, cigar-
ette-case and so forth... on to a leather
lounge against the wall. In his search he
brushed me with his severed stump... ugh,
it was horrible!
Clubfoot had snatched up the portfolio and
hastily examined it. He shook the contents out


266 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
on the billiard-table and examined them care-
fully.
“Not there!” he said. “Run him upstairs,
and we'll strip him," he ordered; "and let not
our clever young friend forget that I'm behind
him with my little toy !"
Schmalz gripped me by the collar, spitefully
digging his knuckles into my neck, and pro-
pelled me out of the room ... almost into the
arms of Monica.
She screamed and, turning, fled away down
the passage. Clubfoot laughed noisily, but I
reflected mournfully that in my present sorry
plight, unwashed and unshaven, in filthy clothes,
haled along like a common pickpocket, even my
own mother would not have recognized me.
There was a degrading scene in the bedroom
to which they dragged me, where the two men:
stripped me to the skin and pawed over every
single article of clothing I possessed. Physically
and mentally, I cowered in my nudity before the
unwholesome gaze of these two sinister cripples.
Of all my experiences in Germany, I still look
back upon that as almost my worst ordeal.
Of course, they found nothing, search as they
might, and presently they flung my clothes back
at me and bade me get dressed again, "for you
and I, young man,” said Clubfoot, with his
glinting smile, "have got to have a little talk!"


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 207.
When I was once more clothed
“You can leave us, Schmalz!” commanded
Clubfoot, “and send up the sergeant when I
ring: he shall look after this tricky Englishman
whilst we are at dinner with our charming
hostess.”
Schmalz went out and left us alone. Clubfoot
lighted a cigar. He smoked in silence for a few .
minutes. I said nothing, for really there was
nothing for me to say. They hadn't got their
precious document, and it was not likely they
would ever recover it now. I feared greatly that
Francis in his loyalty might make an attempt to
rescue me, but I hoped, whatever he did, he
would think first of putting the document in a
place of safety. I was more or less resigned to
my fate. I was in their hands properly now,
and whether they got the document or not, my
doom was sealed.
“I will pay you the compliment of saying, my
dear Captain Okewood,” Clubfoot remarked in
that urbane voice of his which always made my
blood run cold, “that never before in my career
have I devoted so much thought to any single
individual, in the different cases I have handled,
as I have to you. As an individual, you are a
paltry thing: it is rather your remarkable good
fortune that interests me as a philosopher of
sorts. . . . I assure you it will cause me serious


268 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
concern to be the instrument of severing your
really extraordinary strain of good luck. I don't
mind telling you, as man to man, that I have not
yet entirely decided in my mind what to do with
you now that I've got you!”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“You've got me, certainly," I replied, “but
you would vastly prefer to have what I have
not got.”
“Let us not forget to be always content with
small mercies,” answered the other, smiling
with a gleam of his golden teeth, ..."that is a
favorite maxim of mine. As you truly remark,
I would certainly prefer the ... the jewel to
the infinitely less precious and ... interesting
... casket. But what I have, I hold. And I
have you . . . and your accomplice as well.”
“I have no accomplice,” I denied stoutly.
“Surely you forget our gracious hostess, our
most charming Countess? Was it not thanks
to the interest she deigned to take in your safety
that I came here? Had it not been for that
circumstance, I should scarcely have ventured
to intrude upon her widowhood. ..."
“Her widowhood?” I exclaimed.
Clubfoot smiled again.
“You cannot have followed the newspapers
in your ... retreat, my dear Captain Oke-
wood,” he replied, “or surely you would have


I GO ON WITH THE STORY
209
read the afflicting intelligence that Count Rach-
witz, A.D.C. to Field-Marshal von Mackensen,
was killed by a shell that fell into the Brigade
Headquarters where he was lunching at Predeal.
Ah, yes,” he sighed, “our beautiful Countess is
now a widow, alone..." he paused, then
added, “... and unprotected!”
I understood his allusion and went cold with
fear. Why, Monica was involved in this affair
as much as I. Surely they wouldn't dare to
touch her....
Clubfoot leaned forward and tapped me on
the knee.
“You will be sensible, Okewood,” he said con-
fidentially. “You've lost. You can't save your-
self. Your life was forfeit from the moment you
crossed the threshold of his Majesty's private
apartments ... but you can save her.”
I shook his huge hand off my leg.
“You won't bluff me," I answered roughly.
“You daren't touch the Countess Rachwitz, an
American lady, niece of an American ambassa-
dor, married into one of your leading families
... no, Herr Doktor, you must try something
else.”
“Do you know why Schmalz is here?” he
asked patiently, "and those soldiers? ... You
must have passed through the cordon to come
here. Your little friend is in preventive arrest.


I GO ON WITH THE STORY
271
ning personality, Herr Kore told me all he knew;
I pursued my investigations and then dis-
covered what the asinine police had omitted to
tell me, namely, that on the date in question an
alleged American had made a hurried flight
from the Countess Rachwitz's apartment in the
Bendler-Strasse. An admirable fellow ... Max
or Otto, or some name like that . .. anyhow,
he was valet to Madame's invalid brother, was
able to fill in all the lacunæ, and I was thus en-
abled to draw up a very strong case against
your well-meaning but singularly ill-advised
hostess. By this time the lady had left Berlin
for this charming old-world seat, and I prompt-
ly took measures to have her placed in preven-
tive arrest whilst I tracked you down.
"You got away again. Even Jupiter nods,
you know, my dear Captain Okewood, and I
frankly admit I overlooked the silver badge
which you had in your possession. I must com-
pliment you also on your adroitness in leaving
us that false trail to Munich. It took me in to
the extent that I dispatched an emissary to
hunt you down in that delightful capital, but,
for myself, I have a certain flair in these mat-
ters, and I thought you would sooner or later
come to Bellevue. You will admit that I showed
some perspicacity?”
“You're wasting time with all this talk.”


272 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Clubfoot raised a hand deprecatingly.
“I take a pride in my work,” he observed
half-apologetically. Then he added:
“You must not forget that your pretty Coun-
tess is not an American. She is a German. She
is also a widow. You may not know the rela-
tions that existed between her and her late hus-
band, but they were not, I assure you, of such
warmth that the Rachwitz family would unduly
mourn her loss. Do you suppose we care a fig
for all the American ambassadors that ever left
the States? My dear sir, I observe that you are
still lamentably ignorant of the revolution that
war brings into international relations. In war,
where the national interest is concerned, the in-
dividual is nothing. If he or she must be re-
moved, puff! you snuff the offender out. After-
wards you can always pay or apologize, or do
what is required.”
I listened in silence; I had no defence to offer
in face of this deadly logic, the logic of the
stronger man.
Clubfoot produced a paper from his pocket.
“Read that!” he said, tossing it over to me.
“It is the summons for the Countess Rachwitz
to appear before a court-martial. Date blank,
you see. You needn't tear it up ... I've got
several spare blank forms ... one for you,
too!”


I GO ON WITH THE STORY
273
I felt my courage ebbing and my heart turn-
ing to water. I handed him back his paper in
silence. · The booming of a dinner gong sud-
denly swelled into the stillness of the room.
Clubfoot rose and rang the bell.
“Here's my offer, Okewood!” he said. “You
shall restore that letter to me in its integrity,
and the Countess Rachwitz shall go free pro- ;
vided she leaves this country and does not re-
turn. That's my last word! Take the night to
sleep on it! I shall come for my answer in the
morning.”
A sergeant in field-gray with a rifle and fixed
bayonet stood in the doorway.
“I make you responsible for this man, Ser-
geant,” said Clubfoot, “until I return in an
hour or so. Food will be sent up for him and
you will personally assure yourself that no
message is conveyed to him by that or any other
means."
I had washed, I had brushed my clothes, I
had dined, and I sat in silence by the table, in
the most utter dejection of spirit, I think, into
which it is possible for a man to fall. I was so
totally crushed by the disappointment of the
evening that I don't think I pondered much


274 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
about my own fate at all. But my thoughts
were busy with Monica. My life was my own,
and I knew I had a lien on my brother's if
thereby our mission might be carried through
to the end. But had I the right to sacrifice
Monica?
And then the unexpected happened. The
door opened, and she came in, Schmalz behind
her. He dismissed the sergeant with a word
of caution to see that the sentries round the
house were vigilant, and followed the man out,
leaving Monica and me alone.
The girl stopped the torrent of self-reproach
that rose to my lips with a pretty gesture. She
was pale, but she held her head as high as ever.
“Schmalz has given me five minutes alone
with you, Des,” she said, “to plead with you
for my life, that you may betray your trust.
No, don't speak ... there is no time to waste
in words. I have a message for you from Fran-
cis. . . . Yes, I have seen him here, this very
night. . . . He says you must contrive at all.
costs to keep Grundt from going to the shoot at
ten o'clock to-morrow, and to detain him with
you from ten to twelve. That is all I know
about it. . . . But Francis has planned some-
thing, and you and I have got to trust him. Now,
listen ... I shall tell Clubfoot I have pleaded
with you and that you show signs of weakening.


I GO ON WITH THE STORY
275
Say nothing to-night, temporize with him when
he comes for his answer in the morning, and
then send for him at a quarter to ten, when he
will be leaving the house with the others. The
rest I leave to you. Good night, Des, and cheer
up!"...
“But, Monica," I cried, “what about you?”
She reddened deliciously under her pallor.
“Des,” she replied happily, "we are allies
now, we three. If all goes well, I'm coming
with you and Francis!”
With that she was gone. A few minutes after,
a couple of soldiers arrived with Schmalz and
took me downstairs to a dark cellar in the base-
ment, where I was locked in for the night.
I was dreaming of the front ... again I
sniffed the old familiar smells, the scent of fresh
earth, the fetid odor of death; again I heard
outside the trench the faint rattle of tools, the
low whispers of our wiring party; again I saw
the Verey lights soaring skyward and revealing
the desolation of the battlefield in their glare.
Someone was shaking me by the shoulder. It
was my servant come to wake me ... I must
have fallen asleep. Was it stand-to so soon?
I sat up and rubbed my eyes and awoke to the
anguish of another day.


276 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
The sergeant stood at the cellar door, framed
in the bright morning light.
“You are to come upstairs!” he said.
He took me to the billiard-room, where Club-
foot, sleek and washed and shaved, sat at the
writing-table in the sunshine, opening letters
and sipping coffee. A clock on a bracket above
his head pointed to eight.
“You wish to speak to me, I believe,” he said
carelessly, running his eye over a letter in his
hand.
“You must give me a little more time, Herr
Doktor,” I said. “I was worn out last night
and I could not look at things in their proper
light. If you could spare me a few hours
more. ..."
I put a touch of pleading into my voice, which
struck him at once.
“I am not unreasonable, my dear Captain
Okewood,” he replied, “but you will understand
that I am not to be trifled with, so I give you
fair warning. I will give you until ...".
“It is eight o'clock now," I interrupted. “I
tell you what, give me until ten. Will that do?”
Clubfoot nodded assent.
“Take this man upstairs to my bedroom,” he
ordered the sergeant. “Stay with him while he
has his breakfast, and bring him back here at
ten o'clock. And tell Schmidt to leave my car


280 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
So I went straight to the point and told Club-
foot that I was beaten, that he should have his
paper. But there were difficulties about the
execution of both sides of the bargain. We had
deceived one another. What mutual guaran-
tees could we exchange that would give each of
us the assurance of fair play?
Clubfoot settled this point in characteristic
fashion. He protested his good faith elabo-
rately, but the gist of his remarks was that he
held the cards and that, consequently, it was
he who must be trusted, whilst I furnished the
guarantee.
Whilst we were discussing this point the clock
chimed the half-hour.
I switched the conversation to Monica. I
was not at all concerned about myself, I said,
but I must feel sure in my mind that no ill should
befall her. To this Clubfoot replied that I
might set my mind at ease: the moment the
document was in his hands he would give orders
for her release: I should be there and might see
it done myself.
What guarantee was there, I asked, that
she would not be detained before she reached
the frontier?
Clubfoot was restless. With his eye on the clock
but in a placid voice he again protested that his
word was the sole guarantee he could offer.


282 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“But they are nowhere near here," I replied.
“Then where are they?" answered Clubfoot
impatiently. “Come, I am waiting and it's
getting late!”
“It will take several days to recover both
portions," I muttered unwillingly.
“That does not matter," retorted the other;
“there is no particular hurry . . . now!”
; And he smiled grimly.
I dared not raise my eyes to the clock, for I
felt the German's gaze on me. An intuitive in-
stinct told me that his suspicions had been
awakened by my reluctance. I was very nearly
at the end of my resources.
Would the clock never strike?
“I tell you frankly, Herr Doktor," I said in
a voice that trembled with anxiety, “I cannot
leave the Countess unprotected whilst we travel
together to the hiding-places of the document. I
only feel sure of her safety whilst she is near
me. ..."
Clubfoot bent his brows at me.
“What do you suggest then?” he said very
sternly.
“You go and recover the two halves at the
places I indicate,” I stammered out, “and..."
A faint whirr and the silver chime rang out
twice.
Half an hour more!


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 285
her, a white and pitiful figure in some dusty
courtyard at lamplight facing a row of levelled
rifles. ...
“I am waiting!”
Clubfoot's voice broke stridently upon the
silence.
Should I tell him the truth now?
It was three minutes to the hour.
“Come! The two addresses !"
I would keep faith to the last.
“Herr Doktor!" I faltered.
He dashed the pencil down on the table and
sprang to his feet. He caught me by the lapels
of my coat and shook me in an iron grip.
“The addresses, you dog!” he said.
The clock whirred faintly. There was a knock
at the door.
“Come in!” roared Clubfoot and resumed
his seat.
The clock was chiming twelve.
An officer stepped in briskly and saluted.
It was Francis!... Francis, freshly shaved,
his moustache neatly trimmed, a monocle in his
eye, in a beautifully waisted grey military over-
coat, one white-gloved hand raised in salute to
his helmet.
“Hauptmann von Salzmann!"... he in-
troduced himself, clicking his heels and bowing
to Clubfoot, who glared at him, frowning at the


290 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
My brother raised the pistol. As he did so
the man on the floor, by a tremendous effort
of strength, rose erect to his knees, flinging me
headlong. Then there was a hot burst of flame
close to my cheek as I lay on the floor, a deaf-
ening report, a thud and a sickening gurgle.
Something twitched a little on the ground and
then lay still.
We rose to our feet together.
“Des,” said my brother unsteadily, “it seems
rather like murder."
"No, Francis," I whispered back, “it was
justice !"


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE
293
interfere with you, shoot!” He dashed into the
tangle and was swallowed up. I heard a whis-
tle, and a whistle in answer, and a minute later
he appeared again helping Monica through the
thick undergrowth.
Monica looked as pretty as a picture in her
dark green shooting suit and her muffler. She
was as excited as a child at its first play.
“A car!" she exclaimed. “Oh, Francis, I'll
sit beside you!”
My brother glanced at his watch.
“Twenty to one!” he murmured. He had a
hunted look on his face. Monica saw it and it
sobered her.
They got up in front, and I sat in the body of
the car.
“Hang on to that!” said Francis, handing
me over a leather case. I recognized it at a
glance. It was Clubfoot’s dispatch-box. Fran-
cis was thorough in everything.
Once more we dashed out along the desolate
country roads. We saw hardly a soul. Houses
were few and far between and, save for an occa-
sional graybeard hoeing in the wet fields or an
old woman hobbling along the road, the country-
side seemed dead. In the cold air the engine
ran splendidly, and Francis got every ounce of
horse-power out of it.
On we rushed, the wind in our ears, the cold


296 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
plained. Francis was seemingly tireless and
was always the one to lead the way when we
started afresh.
It was heavy going, for at every step our feet
sank deep in the leaves. The forest was undu-
lating with deep hollows and steep banks, which
tried us a good deal. It soon became evident
that we could not keep up the pace. Monica was
tiring visibly, and I had had about enough;
Francis, too, seemed done up. We slackened to
a walk. We were toiling painfully up one of
these steep banks when Francis, who was lead-
ing, held up his hand..
“Charlemagne's Ride!” he whispered as we
came up. We looked down from the top of the
bank and saw below us a broad forest glade,
canopied by the thick branches of the ancient
trees that met overhead, and leading up a slope,
narrowing as it went, to a path that lost itself
among the shadows that were falling fast upon
the forest.
Francis clambered down the bank and we
followed. Twilight reigned below in the glade
under the lofty roof of branches and our feet
rustled softly as we trod the leaves underfoot.
It was a ghostly place, and Monica clutched my
arm as we went quickly after Francis, who,
striding rapidly ahead, threatened to be
swallowed up in the shadows of the autumn


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE 297
evening. He led us up the slope and along the
narrow path. A path struck off it, and he took
it. It led us into a thicker part of the forest
than we had yet struck, where there were great
boulders protruding from the dripping bushes,
and brambles grew so thick that in places they
obscured the track.
The forest sloped up again, and in front of us
was a steep bank, its sides dotted with great
rocks and a tangle of brambles and undergrowth.
Francis stooped between two boulders at the
foot of the slope, then turning and beckoning
us to follow, disappeared. Monica went in after
him, and I came last. We were in a kind of nar-
row entrance, scooped out of the earth between
the rocks, and it led down to a broad chamber,
which had apparently been dug beneath some of
the boulders, for, stretching out my hand, I
found the roof was rock and damp to the touch.
Francis and Monica were standing in this
chamber as I came down. Directly I entered I
knew why they stood so still. A glimmer of
light came from the farther end of the cave, and
a strange sound, a sort of strangled sobbing,
reached our ears.
I crept forward in the dark in the direction of
the light. My outstretched hands came upon a
low opening. I stooped and, crawling round a
rock, saw another chamber illuminated by a gut-


298 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
tering candle stuck by its wax to the earthen
wall. On the floor a man was lying, sobbing as
though his heart would break. He was wearing
some kind of military great-coat with a yellow
stripe running down the back.
“Pst!” I called to him, drawing my pistol
from my pocket. As I did so, Francis behind
me touched my arm to let me know he was there.
“Pst!” I called again louder.
The man swung round on to his knees with a
sudden, frightened spring. When he saw my
pistol, he jerked his hands above his head. Dirty
and unshaven, with the tears all wet on his face,
he looked a woe-begone and tragic figure.
“Kamerad! Kamerad!” he muttered
stupidly at me. “Napoo! Kaput! Engländer!"
I gazed at the stranger, hardly able to believe
my ears. That trench jargon in this place!
“Are you English?" I asked him.
At the sound of my voice he stared about him
wildly.
“Ay, I be English, zur," he replied with a
strong West Country burr, “God help me!"
And, heedless of me and my pistol, he covered
his face with his hands and burst into a wild fit
of sobbing again, rocking himself to and fro in
his grief.
“Go back to Monica!" I whispered to Fran-
cis. "I'll see to this fellow!"


300 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
many with hostile mobs at every station, once
the frontier was past, brutal men and shrieking
women, to whom not even the dying were sacred.
It was a terrible tale, that lost nothing of its
horror from the simple, unadorned style of this
West Country farmer's son. He had been one
of the ragged, emaciated band of British prison-
ers of war who had shivered through that first
long winter in the starvation camp of Friedrich-
sfeld, near Wesel. For two years he had en-
dured the filthy food, the neglect, the harsh
treatment, then a resourceful Belgian friend,
whom he called John, in happier days a contra-
band runner on this very frontier, had shown
him a means to escape. Five days before they
had left the camp and separated, agreeing to
meet at Charlemagne's Ride in the forest and
try to force the frontier together. “John” had
never come. For twenty-four hours Maggs had
waited in vain, then his courage had forsaken
him, and he had crept to that hole in his grief.
I went and fetched Francis and Monica.
Maggs shrunk back as they came in.
“I bean't fit cumpany for no lady, zur," he
whispered to me, "I be that durty, fair crawling
I be. . . . We couldn't keep clean nohow in that
camp!"
All the good soldier's horror of dirt was in
his voice.


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE
301
“That's all right, Maggs," I answered sooth-
ingly, "she'll understand!”
We sat down on the floor in the light of Sap-
per Maggs' candle, and Francis and I reviewed
our situation. The cave we were in ... an old
smuggler's cache . . . was where Francis had
spent several days during his different attempts
to get across the frontier. The border line was
only about a quarter of a mile distant and ran
right through the forest. There was no live-
wire fencing in the forest, such as the Germans
have erected along the frontier between Holland
and Belgium. The frontier was guarded by
patrols. These patrols were posted four men
to every two hundred yards along the line
through the forest, so that two men, patrolling
in pairs, covered a hundred yards apiece.
It was now half-past five in the evening. We
both agreed that we should certainly make the
attempt to cross the frontier that night. Francis
nudged me, indicating the sapper with his eyes.
"Maggs,” I said, "we are all in a bad way,
but our case is more desperate than yours. I
shall not tell you more than this, that, if we are
caught, any of us three, we shall be shot, and
anyone caught with us will fare the same. If
you will take my advice, you will leave us and
start off by yourself: the worst that can happen
to you is to be sent back to your camp. You


302 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
will be punished for running away, but you
won't lose your life!"
Sapper Maggs shook his yellow head.
“I'll stay,” he answered stolidly, “it's more
comfortable-like for us four to 'old together,
and it's a better protection for the lady. I
bean't afear'd of no Gers, I bean't! I'll go
along o' yew officers and the lady, if yew don't
mind, zur!"
So it was settled, and we four agreed to unite
forces. Before we set out Francis wanted to go
and reconnoitre. I thought he had done more
than his share that day, and said so. But Fran-
cis insisted.
“I know my way blindfold about the forest,
old man,” he said, “it'll be far safer for me than
for you. I'll leave you the map and mark the
route you are to follow, so that you can find the
way if anything happens to me. If I'm not back
by midnight, you ought certainly not to wait any
longer, but make the attempt by yourselves.”
My brother handed me back the document and
went over the route we were to follow on the
map. Then he deposited his bundle in the cave
and declared himself ready
“And don't forget old Clubfoot's box," he
i said by way of a parting injunction.
Monica took him out to the entrance of our
refuge. She was dabbing her eyes with her


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE
303
handkerchief when she returned. To divert her
thoughts, I questioned her about the events that
had led to my rescue, and she told me how, at
Francis' request, she had got all the servants
out of the Castle on different pretexts. It was
Francis who had got rid of the soldiers remain-
ing as a guard.
“You remember the Captain of Köpenick
trick,” she said. “Well, Francis played it off
on the sergeant and those six men. He slept at
Cleves, had himself trimmed up at the barber's,
bought those field-boots he is wearing, and stole
that helmet and great-coat off the pegs in the
passage at Schmidt's Café, where the officers
always go and drink beer after morning parade.
Then he drove to the Castle-he knew that the
place would be deserted once the shoot had
started—and told the sergeant he had been sent
from Goch to inspect the guard. I think he is
just splendid! He inspected the men and cursed
everybody up and down, and sent the sergeant
out to the paddock with orders to drill them for
two hours. Francis was telling me all about it
as we came along. He says that if you can get
hold of a uniform and hector a German enough,
he will never call your bluff. Can you beat it?"
The hours dragged wearily on. We had no
food, and Maggs, who had eaten the last of his
provisions twenty-four hours before—the Brit-


304 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
ish soldier is a bad hoarder-soon consumed the
last of my cigarettes. It was past ten o'clock
when I heard a step outside. The next moment
Francis came in, white and breathless.
"They're beating the forest for us," he pant-
ed. "The place is full of men. I had to crawl
the whole way there and back, and I'm soaked.”
I pointed to Monica, who was fast asleep, and
he lowered his voice.
“Des,” he said, “I've hoped as long as I
dared, but now I believe the game's up. They're
beating the forest in a great circle, soldiers and
police and customs men. If we set out at once
we can reach the frontier before they get here,
but what's the use of that ... every patrol is
on the look-out for us ... the forest, seems
ablaze with torches.”
“We must try it, Francis," I said. “We
haven't a dog's chance if we stay here!”
“I think you're right,” he answered. “Well,
here's the plan. There's a deep ravine that runs
clear across the frontier. I spent an hour in it.
They've built a plank bridge across the top just
this side of the line, and the patrol com to the
ravine about every three minutes. It is practi-
cally impossible to get out of sight and sound
along that ravine in three minutes, but ..."
“Unless we could drar the patrol's attention
away!” said Sapper Maggs.


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE 305
But Francis ignored the interruption.
"... We can at least try it. Come on, we
must be starting! Thank God, there's no moon;
it's as dark as the devil outside!”
We roused up Monica and groped our way out
of the cave into the black and dripping forest.
Somewhere in the distance a faint glare red-
dened the sky. From time to time I thought I
heard a shout, but it sounded far away.
We crawled stealthily forward, Francis in
front, then Monica, Maggs and I last. In a few
minutes we were wet through, and our hands,
blue and dead with cold, were scratched and
torn. Our progress was interminably slow.
Every few yards Francis raised his hand and
we stopped.
At last we reached the gloomy glade where, as
Francis had told us, according to popular belief,
the wraith of Charlemagne was still seen on the
night of St. Hubert's Day galloping along with
his ghostly followers of the chase. The rustling
of leaves caright our ears. Instantly we all lay
prone behind a bank.
A group of men came swinging along the
glade. One of them was singing an ancient
German soldier song:
“Die Vöglein im Walde
Sie singen so schön
In der Heimat, in der Heimat,
Da gibt's ein Wiederseh'n.”


306 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
“The relief patrol!" I whispered to Francis,
as soon as they were past.
“The other lot they relieve will be back this
way in a minute. We must get across quickly."
My brother stood erect, and tiptoed swiftly
across Charlemagne's Ride, and we followed.
We must have crawled for an hour before we
came to the ravine. It was a deep, narrow ditch
with steep sides, full of undergrowth and bram-
bles. Now we could hear distinctly the voices
of men all around us, as it seemed, and to right
and to left and in front we caught at intervals
glimpses of red flames through the trees. We
could only proceed at a snail's pace lest the
continual rustle of our footsteps should betray
us. So each advanced a few paces in turn; then
we all paused, and then the next one went for-
ward. We could no longer crawl; the under-
growth was too thick for that; we had to go for-
ward bent double.
We had progressed like this for fully half an
hour when Francis, who was in front as usual,
beckoned us to lie down. We all lay motionless
among the brambles.
Then a voice somewhere above us said in
German:
“And I'll have a man at the plank here, ser-
geant: he can watch the ravine."
Another voice answered:


308 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
The rustling broke out once more on the left,
and gradually became lost in the distance.
Silence.
I felt a hot breath in my ear. Sapper Maggs
stood by my side.
“There be a feller a-watching for us up
there?” he whispered.
I nodded.
“If us could drar his 'tention away, yew could
slip by, next time the patrols is past, couldn't
'ee?"
Again I nodded.
“It'd be worse for yew than for me, supposin'
yew'd be ca-art, that's what t'other officer said,
warn't it?”
And once more I nodded.
The hot whisper came again. .
“I'll drar 'un off for 'ee, zur, nex' time the
patrols pass. When I holler, yew and the
others, yew run. Thirty-one forty-three Sapper
Maggs, R.E., from Chewton Mendip ... that's
me ... maybe yew'll let us have a bit o' writing
to the camp.”
I stretched out my hand in the darkness to
stop him. He had gone.
I leant forward and whispered to Francis :
“When you hear a shout, make a dash for it!"
I felt him look at me in surprise-it was too
dark to see his face.


CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE 309
“Right!” he whispered back.
Now to the left we heard voices shouting and
saw torches gleaming red among the trees. To
right and rear answering shouts resounded.
Again the patrols met at the plank above our
heads, and again their departing footsteps
rustled in the leaves.
The murmur of voices grew nearer. We could
faintly smell the burning resin of the torches.
Then a wild yell rent the forest. The voice
above us shouted “Halt!” but the echo was lost
in the deafening report of a rifle.
Francis caught Monica by the wrist and
dragged her forward. We went plunging and
crashing through the tangle of the ravine. We
heard a second shot and a third, commands were
shouted, the red glare deepened in the sky....
Monica collapsed quite suddenly at my feet.
She never uttered a sound, but fell prone, her
face as white as paper. Without a word we
picked her up between us and went on, stum-
bling, gasping, coughing, our clothes rent and
torn, the blood oozing from the deep scratches
on our faces and hands.
At length our strength gave out. We laid
Monica down in the ravine and drew the under-
growth over her, then we crawled in under the
brambles exhausted, beat.


310 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
Dawn was streaking the sky with lemon when
a dog jumped sniffing down into our hiding-
place. Francis and Monica were asleep.
A man stood at the top of the ravine looking
down on us. He carried a gun over his shoulder.
“Have you had an accident?" he said kindly.
He spoke in Dutch.


RED TABS EXPLAINS
313
We were shown straight in to the Chief. I
was rather taken aback by the easy calm of his
manner in receiving us.
“How are you, Okewood?" he said, nodding
to Francis. “This your brother? How d'ye
do?"
He gave me his hand and was silent. There
was a distinct pause. Feeling distinctly embar-
rassed, I lugged out my portfolio, extracted the
three slips of paper and laid them on the desk
before the Chief.
“I've brought you something," I said lamely.
He picked up the slips of paper and looked at
them for a moment. Then he lifted a cardboard
folder from the desk in front of him, opened it
and displayed the other half of the Kaiser's
letter, the fragment I had believed to be repos-
ing in a bag at Rotterdam railway station. He
placed the two fragments side by side. They
fitted exactly. Then he closed the folder, car-
ried it across the room to a safe and locked it
up. Coming back, he held out his two hands to
us, giving the right to me, the left to Francis.
“You have done very well,” he said. “Good
boys! Good boys!"
“But that other half ..." I began.
“Your friend Ashcroft is by no means such a
fool as he looks,” the Chief chuckled. “He did
a wise thing. He brought your two letters to


316 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT
his own megalomania craving for military lau-
rels, on the one hand, and, on the other, that
place in history as the Prince of Peace for which,
in gentler moments, he has so often hankered.
“The Kaiser is a man of moods. He sat down
and penned this letter in a fit of despondency
and indecision, when the vision of Peace seemed
fairer to him than the spectre of War. God
knows what violent emotion impelled him to
write this extraordinary appeal to his English
friend, an appeal which, if published, would con-
vict him of the deepest treachery to his ally, but
he wrote the letter and forthwith dispatched it
to London. He did not make use of the regular
courier: he sent the letter by a man of his own
choosing, who had special instructions to hand
the letter in person to Prince Lichnowski, the
German ambassador. Lichnowski was to deliver
the missive personally to its destined recipient.
“Almost as soon as the letter was away, the
Kaiser seems to have realized what he had done,
to have repented of his action. Attempts to stop
the messenger before he reached the coast ap-
pear to have failed. At any rate, we know that
all through July 31st and August 1st Lichnow-
ski, in London, was bombarded with dispatches
ordering him to send the messenger with the let-
ter back to Berlin as soon as he reached the
embassy.


RED TABS EXPLAINS
319
preter was jugged and Semlin had to report that
he had only got half the letter. The rest you
know ... how Grundt was sent for, how he
came to this country and retrieved the other
portion. Don't ask me how he set about it: I
don't know, and we never found out even where
the interpreter deposited the second half or how
Grundt discovered its hiding place. But he
executed his mission and got clear away with the
goods. The rest of the tale you know better
than I do!”
“But Clubfoot," I asked, “who is ke?”
“There are many who have asked that ques-
tion,” Red Tabs replied gravely, “and some
have not waited long for their answer. The man
was known by name and reputation to very few,
by sight to even fewer, yet I doubt if any man
of his time wielded greater power in secret than
he. Officially, he was nothing, he didn't exist;
but in the dark places, where his ways were laid,
he watched and plotted and spied for his master,
the tool of the Imperial spite as he was the in-
strument of the Imperial vengeance.
“A man like the Kaiser," my friend con-
tinued, “monarch though he is, has many ene-
mies naturally, and makes many more. Head
of the Army, head of the Navy, head of the
Church, head of the State-undisputed, auto-
cratic head-he is confronted at every turn by


EMERSON HOUGH'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold.
Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
THE COVERED WAGON
An epic story of the Great West from which the fam.
ous picture was made.
THE WAY OF A MAN
A colorful romance of the pioneer West before the
Civil War.
THE SAGEBRUSHER
An Eastern girl answers a matrimonial ad. and goes out
West in the hills of Montana to find her mate.
THE WAY OUT
A romance of the feud districtof the Cumberland country
THE BROKEN GATE
A story of broken social conventions and of a woman's
determination to put the past behind her.
THE WAY TO THE WEST
Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett and Kit Carson figure in
this story of the opening of the West.
HEART'S DESIRE
The story of what happens when the railroad came to a
little settlement in the far West.
THE PURCHASE PRICE
A story of Kentucky during the days after the American
Revolution.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK


PETER B. KYNE'S NOVELS
May be had wherover books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR
When two strong men clash and the under-dog has Irish
blood in his veins—there's a tale that Kyne can tell! And
“the girl” is also very much in evidence.
KINDRED OF THE DUST
Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire lum-
ber king, falls in love with “ Nan of the Sawdust Pile," a
charming girl who has been ostracized by her townsfolk.
THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS
The fight of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the
Valley of the Giants against treachery. The reader finishes
with a sense of having lived with big men and women in a
big country.
CAPPY RICKS
The story of old Cappy Ricks and of Matt Peasley, the
boy he tried to break because he knew the acid test was
good for his soul.
WEBSTER: MAN'S MAN
In a little Jim Crow Republic in Central America, a man
and a woman, hailing from the “States," met up with a
revolution and for a while adventures and excitement came
so thick and fast that their love affair had to wait for a lull
in the game.
CAPTAIN SCRAGGS
This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscal
lion sea-faring men-a Captain Scraggs, owner of the green
vegetable freighter Maggie, Gibney the mate and McGuff.
ney the engineer.
THE LONG CHANCE
A story fresh from the heart of the West, of San Pasqual,
a sun-baked desert town, of Harley P. Hennage, the best
gambler, the best and worst man of San Pasqual and of
lovely Donna.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK


RUBY M. AYRE'S NOVELS
May be had whørover books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list
RICHARD CHATTERTON
A fascinating story in which love and jealousy play
strange tricks with women's souls.
A BACHELOR HUSBAND
Can a woman love two men at the same time?
In its solving of this particular variety of triangle "A
Bachelor Husband” will particularly interest, and strangely
enough, without one shock to the most conventional minded.
THE SCAR
With fine comprehension and insight the author shows a
terrific contrast between the woman whose love was of the
flesh and one whose love was of the spirit.
THE MARRIAGE OF BARRY WICKLOW
Here is a man and woman who, marrying for love, yet try
to build their wedded life upon a gospel of hate for each
other and yet win back to a greater love for each other in
the end.
THE UPHILL ROAD
The heroine of this story was a consort of thieves. The
man was fine, clean, fresh from the West. It is a story of
strength and passion.
WINDS OF THE WORLD
Jill, a poor little typist, marries the great Henry Sturgess
and inherits millions, but not happiness. Then at last-but
we must leave that to Ruby M. Ayres to tell you as only
she can.
THE SECOND HONEYMOON
In this story the author has produced a book which no
one who has loved or hopes to love can afford to miss.
The story fairly leaps from climax to climax.
THE PHANTOM LOVER
Have you not often heard of someone being in love with
love rather than the person they believed the object of their a
affections ? That was Esther ! But she passes through the
crisis into a deep and profound love.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK









SA


JUN 2 9. 1932