Who Goes There!. Robert W. Chambers

      "Very well. We've passage on the boat if necessary. I'll go out to Westheath anyway. If I don't care for what he is doing out there we can hold him on the dock."

      "Another thing," mused Gwynn. "The Edmeston Agency may be quite all right, but the man's name is Grätz."

      "He's been under scrutiny. He seems to be all right."

      "All the same—his name is all wrong. What was that chauffeur's name?"

      "Bush."

      "Busch?"

      "He spells it without a c. I saw his signature on the Agency rolls."

      "Have you his history?"

      "He's Canadian. I've sent for it."

      "You'll find that his father spelled his name with a c," remarked Gwynn, gloomily. But Vane only laughed.

      "I'm off," he said. "Stick around where I can get you on the telephone if necessary. But I don't think it will be necessary."

      "I do," muttered Gwynn.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

KAREN

       Table of Contents

      The journey was the usual one through interminable London streets alternately respectable and squalid; and straight ahead through equally interminable suburbs with their endless "terraces," semi-detached and detached villas, and here and there a fine old house behind neglected garden walls, making its last forlorn stand against the all-destroying inroad of the London jungle.

      There had been a heavy haze in London, but no fog. In the country, however, beyond the last outstretched suburban tentacle of the inky octopus the morning sun glimmered low through a golden smother, promising a glimpse of blue sky.

      To Guild, one "heath" has always resembled another, and now, as they passed through the country at high speed, there seemed to him very little difference between the several named points which marked his progress toward Westheath. Hedges alternated with ivy-covered walls on either side of a wide, fine road; trees were splendid as usual, sheep fat, cattle sleek. Here and there a common or heath glimmered bewitchingly where sunlight fell among the whins; birds winged their way, waters glimmered, and the clean, singing August wind of England blew steadily in his face strangely reviving within him some ancient, forgotten, pre-natal wistfulness. Maybe it came from his American mother's English mother.

      Near two villages and once on the open highway policemen leisurely signalled the chauffeur to stop, and came sauntering around to the tonneau to question Guild as to his origin, his business, and his destination; quiet, dignified, civil, respectable men they seemed to be in their night cloaks and their always smart and business-like helmets and uniforms.

      All seemed satisfied, but all politely suggested that passports were now becoming fashionable in England. And Guild thanked them pleasantly and drove on.

      "Bush," he said to his chauffeur, "this spy scare was ridiculed by the newspapers, but it looks to me as though it were being taken rather seriously after all."

      "It is, sir."

      "I understand that about thirty thousand German and Austrian reservists have been arrested in England since war began?"

      "I hear so, sir."

      "I suppose the country really is swarming with spies. The paper yesterday said that there was still a great and serious leakage of military information out of England. One paper, yesterday afternoon, reported that a number of spies had already been shot in the Tower."

      "I have heard so, sir," said the chauffeur smilingly.

       He was a blond, good-looking young fellow. Always his lips seemed to rest in pleasant curves as though his reveries were agreeable.

      A few hideously modern detached villas were passed, then hedges, walls, a wood, a modern bridge.

      "How near are we to Westheath now?" asked Guild, leaning forward in his seat.

      "We are there, sir." And the smiling chauffeur slowed the car to a standstill at a cross-roads where furze and broom grew rankly over the heath and a few rather tawdry villas appeared among the trees beyond.

      Guild looked at his watch. It was only a little after seven, an unearthly hour for a call upon any young girl, not to mention one to whom he was personally unknown.

      A policeman still wearing his waterproof night cloak, came leisurely across to learn what was wanted.

      "I am looking for the villa of Miss Girard—Miss Karen Girard," explained Guild.

      "Hyacinth Villa, Number 169. Take the road to the right. It is the only house."

      "Thank you."

      The car moved forward, swung to the right. About a quarter of a mile away stood a small, modern stucco dwelling behind its hedge of privet. Beyond that there were woods again and dewy uplands glimmering with furze and brake.

      When they arrived they found the driveway closed by a gate.

      "Never mind; I'll walk to the house," said Guild.

       The smiling chauffeur leaned back and opened the tonneau door; Guild descended, looked at the iron gate between its ugly stucco posts, peered through it up the drive with its parallel rows of recently planted lime trees. Everything about the place was recent if not brand new—ugly with the ugliness of well-to-do bad taste. Red geraniums and yellow cannas had been planted in fearsome juxtaposition, salvia flanked a red brick terrace—a most unholy combination of colour. In the early morning the sun exposed the place without mercy. It was lonesome and amazingly depressing.

      Glancing up at the gate again he discovered a nickel-plated label riveted to one of the stucco posts. On it was the name of the place, "Hyacinth Villa," and its number 169.

      There was no lodge, no bell, but the wicket gate was not locked. So Guild entered.

      "Shall I drive up to the house, sir?" inquired the chauffeur.

      "No; wait out here."

      There seemed to be no sign of life about the house when at last he arrived in front of it—nobody apparently stirring at that hour. He hesitated; he still wore the same knickerbockers and cap which he had worn in Belgium. His sack, which was now in the car, contained only fresh linen; and he began to wonder what his reception might be in such a costume and at such an hour. He doubted that the unconventionality of the daughter of a Prussian aristocrat might extend far enough to accept him, his rather shabby clothes, and his explanation of the visit.

      It was all very well for this young girl to kick over the tradition, cut home traces in the sacred cause of art, call herself Girard, and live in an impossible villa for art's sake. Few well-born Fräuleins ever did this sort of thing, but there had been instances. And anybody in Germany will always add that they invariably went to the devil.

      Guild rang. After he had waited long enough he rang again. After that he resumed his ringing. Keeping his finger pressed on the electric button and laying his ear to the door. The bell was doing its duty inside the house; he could hear it.

      Presently he heard a fumbling of chains and locks inside, the door opened on a crack and a sleepy voice inquired: "Is it you, Anna?"

      Guild hesitated: "I wish to see Miss Girard. Is she at home?"

      "Who are you?" demanded the voice no longer sleepy.

      "My name is Guild. I am sorry to disturb Miss Girard at such an hour, but I cannot help it. Is Miss Girard in?"

      "Yes; I am Miss Girard."

      "Are