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 his forethought.
Newspapers bought en route contained dark forebodings of England’s growing hostility. A special edition of a Hanover journal spoke of an ultimatum, a word which evoked harsh denunciations of “British treachery” from the Germans. The comparative friendliness induced by Dalroy’s prevision as a caterer vanished at once. When the train rolled wearily across the Rhine into Cologne, ten hours late, both Dalroy and the girl were fully aware that their fellow-passengers regarded them as potential enemies.
It was then about six o’clock on the Tuesday evening, and a loud-voiced official announced that the train would not proceed to Aix-la-Chapelle until eight. The German officers went out, no doubt to seek a meal; but took the precaution of asking an officer in charge of some Bavarian troops on the platform to station a sentry at the carriage door. Probably they had no other intent, and merely wished to safeguard their places; but Dalroy realised now the imprudence of talking English, and signed to the girl that she was to come with him into the corridor on the opposite side of the carriage.
There they held counsel. Miss Beresford was firmly resolved to reach Brussels, and flinched from no difficulties. It must be remembered that war was not formally declared between Great Britain and Germany until that evening. Indeed, the tremendous decision was made while the pair so curiously allied by fate were discussing their programme. Had they even quitted the train at Cologne they had a fair prospect of reaching neutral territory by hook or by crook. But they knew nothing of Liège, and the imperishable laurels which that gallant city was about to gather. They elected to go on!
A station employé brought them some unpalatable food, which they made a pretence of eating. Irene Beresford’s Hanoverian German was perfect, so Dalroy did not air his less accurate accent, and the presence of the sentry was helpful at this crisis. Though sharp-eyed and rabbit-eared, the man was quite civil.
At last the Prussian officers returned. He who had been chatty overnight was now brusque, even overbearing. “You have no right here!” he vociferated at Dalroy. “Why should a damned Englishman travel with Germans? Your country is perfidious as ever. How do I know that you are not a spy?”
“Spies are not vouched for by Councillors of State,” was the calm reply. “I have in my pocket a letter from his Excellency Staatsrath von Auschenbaum authorising my journey, and you yourself must perceive that I am escorting a lady to her home.”
The other snorted, but subsided into his seat. Not yet had Teutonic hatred of all things British burst its barriers. But the pressure was increasing. Soon it would leap forth like the pent-up flood of some mighty reservoir whose retaining wall had crumbled into ruin.
“Is there any news?” went on Dalroy civilly. At any hazard, he was determined, for the sake of the girl, to maintain the semblance of good-fellowship. She, he saw, was cool and collected. Evidently, she had complete trust in him.
For a little while no one answered. Ultimately, the officer who regarded Liège as a joke said shortly, “Your Sir Grey has made some impudent suggestions. I suppose it is what the Americans call ‘bluff’; but bluffing Germany is a dangerous game.”
“Newspapers exaggerate such matters,” said Dalroy.
“It may be so. Still, you’ll be lucky if you get beyond Aachen,” was the ungracious retort. The speaker refused to give the town its French name.
An hour passed, the third in Cologne, before the train rumbled away into the darkness. The girl pretended to sleep. Indeed, she may have dozed fitfully. Dalroy did not attempt to engage her in talk. The Germans gossiped in low tones. They knew that their nation had spied on the whole world. Naturally, they held every foreigner in their midst as tainted in the same vile way.
From Cologne to Aix-la-Chapelle is only a two hours’ run. That night the journey consumed four. Dalroy no longer dared look out when the train stood in a siding. He knew by the sounds that all the dread paraphernalia of war was speeding toward the frontier; but any display of interest on his part would be positively dangerous now; so he, too, closed his eyes.
By this time he was well aware that his real trials would begin at Aix; but he had the philosopher’s temperament, and never leaped fences till he reached them.
At one in the morning they entered the station of the last important town in Germany. Holland lay barely three miles away, Belgium a little farther. The goal was near. Dalroy felt that by calmness and quiet determination he and his charming protégé might win through. He was very much taken by Irene Beresford. He had never met any girl who attracted him so strongly. He found himself wondering whether he might contrive to cultivate this strangely formed friendship when they reached England. In a word, the self-denying ordinance popularly attributed to Lord Kitchener was weakening in Captain Arthur Dalroy.
Then his sky dropped, dropped with a bang.
The train had not quite halted when the door was torn open, and a bespectacled, red-faced officer glared in.
“It is reported from Cologne that there are English in this carriage,” he shouted.
“Correct, my friend. There they are!” said the man who had snarled at Dalroy earlier.
“You must descend,” commanded the new-comer. “You are both under arrest.”
“On what charge?” inquired Dalroy, bitterly conscious of a gasp of terror which came involuntarily from the girl’s lips.
“You are spies. A sentry heard you talking English, and saw you examining troop-trains from the carriage window.”
So that Bavarian lout had listened to the Prussian officer’s taunt, and made a story of his discovery to prove his diligence.
“We are not spies, nor have we done anything to warrant suspicion,” said Dalroy quietly. “I have letters – ”
“No talk. Out you come!” and he was dragged forth by a bloated fellow whom he could have broken with his hands. It was folly to resist, so he merely contrived to keep on his feet, whereas the fat bully meant to trip him ignominiously on to the platform.
“Now you!” was the order to Irene, and she followed. Half-a-dozen soldiers closed around.
