The Day of Wrath: A Story of 1914. Tracy Louis

is the German military ideal, Dalroy classed him, in the expressive phrase of the regimental mess, as “a good bit of a bounder.” Yet he was a patrician by birth, or he could not hold a commission in the Imperial Guard, and he had been most helpful and painstaking that night, so perforce one must be civil to him.

      Dalroy himself, nearly as tall, was lean and lithe, hard as nails, yet intellectual, a cavalry officer who had passed through the Oxford mint.

      By this time four other occupants of the compartment were in evidence, and a ticket-examiner came along. Dalroy produced a number of vouchers. The girl, who obviously spoke German, leaned out, purse in hand, and was about to explain that the crush in the booking-hall had prevented her from obtaining a ticket.

      But Dalroy intervened. “I have your ticket,” he said, announcing a singular fact in the most casual manner he could command.

      “Thank you,” she said instantly, trying to conceal her own surprise. But her eyes met Von Halwig’s bold stare, and read therein not only a ready appraisement of her good looks but a perplexed half-recognition.

      The railwayman raised a question. Contrary to the general custom, the vouchers bore names, which he compared with a list.

      “These tickets are for Herren Fane and Dalroy, and I find a lady here,” he said suspiciously.

      “Fräulein Evelyn Fane, my cousin,” explained Dalroy. “A mistake of the issuing office.”

      “But – ”

      “Ach, was!” broke in Von Halwig impatiently. “You hear. Some fool has blundered. It is sufficient.”

      At any rate, his word sufficed. Dalroy entered the carriage, and the door was closed and locked.

      “Never say I haven’t done you a good turn,” grinned the Prussian. “A pleasant journey, though it may be a slow one. Don’t be surprised if I am in Aachen before you.”

      Then he coloured. He had said too much. One of the men in the compartment gave him a sharp glance. Aachen, better known to travelling Britons as Aix-la-Chapelle, lay on the road to Belgium, not to France.

      “Well, to our next meeting!” he went on boisterously. “Run across to Paris during the occupation.”

      “Good-bye! And accept my very grateful thanks,” said Dalroy, and the train started.

      “I cannot tell you how much obliged I am,” said a sweet voice as he settled down into his seat. “Please, may I pay you now for the ticket which you supplied so miraculously?”

      “No miracle, but a piece of rare good-luck,” he said. “One of the attachés at our Embassy arranged to travel to England to-night, or I would never have got away, even with the support of the State Councillor who requested Lieutenant von Halwig to befriend me. Then, at the last moment, Fane couldn’t come. I meant asking Von Halwig to send a messenger to the Embassy with the spare ticket.”

      “So you will forward the money to Mr. Fane with my compliments,” said the girl, opening her purse.

      Dalroy agreed. There was no other way out of the difficulty. Incidentally, he could not help noticing that the lady was well supplied with gold and notes.

      As they were fellow-travellers by force of circumstances, Dalroy took a card from the pocket-book in which he was securing a one-hundred-mark note.

      “We have a long journey before us, and may as well get to know each other by name,” he said.

      The girl smiled acquiescence. She read, “Captain Arthur Dalroy, 2nd Bengal Lancers, Junior United Service Club.”

      “I haven’t a card in my bag,” she said simply, “but my name is Beresford – Irene Beresford – Miss Beresford,” and she coloured prettily. “I have made an effort of the explanation,” she went on; “but I think it is stupid of women not to let people know at once whether they are married or single.”

      “I’ll be equally candid,” he replied. “I’m not married, nor likely to be.”

      “Is that defiance, or merely self-defence?”

      “Neither. A bald fact. I hold with Kitchener that a soldier should devote himself exclusively to his profession.”

      “It would certainly be well for many a heart-broken woman in Europe to-day if all soldiers shared your opinion,” was the answer; and Dalroy knew that his vis-à-vis had deftly guided their chatter on to a more sedate plane.

      The train halted an unconscionable time at a suburban station, and again at Charlottenburg. The four Germans in the compartment, all Prussian officers, commented on the delay, and one of them made a joke of it.

      “The signals must be against us at Liège,” he laughed.

      “Perhaps England has sent a regiment of Territorials across by the Ostend boat,” chimed in another. Then he turned to Dalroy, and said civilly, “You are English. Your country will not be so mad as to join in this adventure, will she?”

      “This is a war of diplomats,” said Dalroy, resolved to keep a guard on his tongue. “I am quite sure that no one in England wants war.”

      “But will England fight if Germany invades Belgium?”

      “Surely Germany will do no such thing. The integrity of Belgium is guaranteed by treaty.”

      “Your friend the lieutenant, then, did not tell you that our army crossed the frontier to-day?”

      “Is that possible?”

      “Yes. It is no secret now. Didn’t you realise what he meant when he said his regiment was going to Aachen? But, what does it matter? Belgium cannot resist. She must give free passage to our troops. She will protest, of course, just to save her face.”

      The talk became general among the men. At the moment there was a fixed belief in Germany that Britain would stand aloof from the quarrel. So convinced was Austria of the British attitude that the Viennese mob gathered outside the English ambassador’s residence that same evening, and cheered enthusiastically.

      During another long wait Dalroy took advantage of the clamour and bustle of a crowded platform to say to Miss Beresford in a low tone, “Are you well advised to proceed viâ Brussels? Why not branch off at Oberhausen, and go home by way of Flushing?”

      “I must meet my sister in Brussels,” said the girl. “She is younger than I, and at school there. I am not afraid – now. They will not interfere with any one in this train, especially a woman. But how about you? You have the unmistakable look of a British officer.”

      “Have I?” he said, smiling. “That is just why I am going through, I suppose.”

      Neither could guess the immense significance of those few words. There was a reasonable chance of escape through Holland during the next day. By remaining in the Belgium-bound train they were, all unknowing, entering the crater of a volcano.

      The ten-hours’ run to Cologne was drawn out to twenty. Time and again they were shunted into sidings to make way for troop trains and supplies. At a wayside station a bright moon enabled Dalroy to take stock of two monster howitzers mounted on specially constructed bogie trucks. He estimated their bore at sixteen or seventeen inches; the fittings and accessories of each gun filled nine or ten trucks. How prepared Germany was! How thorough her organisation! Yet the hurrying forward of these giant siege-guns was premature, to put it mildly? Or were the German generals really convinced that they would sweep every obstacle from their path, and hammer their way into Paris on a fixed date? Dalroy thought of England, and sighed, because his mind turned first to the army – barely one hundred thousand trained men. Then he remembered the British fleet, and the outlook was more reassuring!

      After a night of fitful sleep dawn found the travellers not yet half-way. The four Germans were furious. They held staff appointments, and had been assured in Berlin that the clock-work regularity of mobilisation arrangements would permit this particular train to cover the journey according to schedule. Meals were irregular and scanty. At one small town, in the early morning, Dalroy secured a quantity of rolls and fruit, and all benefited later by