London, unlike New York, normally is a very empty city at two o’clock in the morning; but now, as if conjured up by a magic talisman, a group began to assemble. I looked to my right—from which the constable was bearing down upon us. Even as he ran, his bearing was ominous. It occurred to me that he regarded O’Shea and myself with justifiable suspicion, and I foresaw complications.
It was odd, I reflected, that we stood almost in the shadow of Scotland Yard—representing Law and Order, the forces of Empire against those of disruption—but that the very powers that should have backed us were likely now to aid and abet a dangerous conspirator and assassin in escaping the meshes of justice.
The constable rather windily began to blow his whistle again.
A resolute-looking man, clean-shaven, and of a very hard-bitten countenance, suddenly appeared at my elbow.
“What’s the trouble?” he inquired—and challenged me with keen eyes.
An official note in his voice was recognizable. O’Shea turned quickly. The ever-increasing group drew more closely around us. A second constable was making his way across from Parliament Square.
“The trouble is,” said O’Shea, “that this gate is locked, and I want to get on to the pier.”
The man, whose face seemed to have been chiselled out of seasoned teak, stared in a curious way. Then the breathless constable burst upon us.
“Just a minute!” he began. “I want to know some more about this business!”
He became uneasily aware of the presence of our weatherbeaten acquaintance. He stopped in the act of laying his hand upon O’Shea’s arm. O’Shea, watching the man who had accosted us, spoke, and:
“Sergeant Donoghue!” he said.
The expression on the grim face changed. The man so addressed drew himself smartly to attention. It was automatic—second nature; but his smile was good to see.
“Thank you, sir,” said he, “for remembering me.”
O’Shea held out his hand.
“Stand easy, Sergeant,” he replied. “I gather that you have left the Army and rejoined the Police.”
Donoghue’s eyes were glistening as he grasped the proffered hand.
“I have that, sir,” he said, “and without loss of rank. I am a detective-sergeant now.”
He glanced at the two constables—for the Parliament Square reinforcement had come up.
“Carry on,” he directed, “there’s a man drowning. Leave this to me.”
“Donoghue,” said O’Shea, “do you hate the Reds?”
“I do, sir!”
“Well, one of them has just jumped off the Bridge. He is a powerful swimmer. I want to get on to the pier and into a boat.”
“You are in luck, sir,” Donoghue returned enthusiastically, “for to-night I happen to have the key.”
When, a minute later, we pushed out into the stream, watched by an ever-increasing group of idlers, I thought how proud a man must feel to see a light like that which had crossed Donoghue’s face as he had recognized the officer he had served under. One such silent tribute is worth more than a thousand cheers.
“Do you remember the night behind the farm, sir?” Donoghue asked.
And O’Shea in reply merely laid his hand upon his shoulder and gripped hard for a moment. But this apparently simple question had a far-reaching result, as I was presently to learn.
A fairly strong current was running, which, together with O’Shea’s recollection of the swimmer’s position as seen from the Bridge, sufficiently indicated where we should lay our course.
Certain official steps had automatically been taken, and we were not alone in our quest. Apparently, even at two o’clock in the morning, it is contrary to County Council regulations for anyone to bathe from Westminster Bridge.
Looking up from that unfamiliar viewpoint at certain London landmarks outlined against the clear sky, I wondered why Fate always seems to put a brake upon our joy-rides.
Untrammelled by an intense anxiety on account of Nanette that obsessed me to-night, this queer adventure must have been definitely enjoyable. But, like so many human experiences, it was less exciting in the doing than it is in the telling. For exploration of unfamiliar by-paths, as I have already mentioned, there is no vehicle like a cosy armchair.
That Zara would head for the nearest landing place, it was fairly reasonable to suppose. Therefore we pulled hard across in the direction of the County Hall, eagerly watching the surface of the water. Suddenly:
“There he goes!” cried Donoghue.
But, even as he spoke, I had seen the swimmer—close in, under the right bank, heading powerfully for the stairs. We raced for him and made land almost simultaneously.
In the act of landing Zara stumbled and slipped back into the river.
He came up by the stern of the boat. O’Shea’s hand shot out, grasped him by a soddened collar-band, and hauled him in against the side. Dimly, I could see O’Shea’s face as he looked down at the upcast eyes of Zara. I think I knew what was in his mind, and in those upturned eyes was recognition of it—and acceptance.
Still grasping the helpless man, O’Shea glanced quickly at Donoghue.
“Yes, Donoghue,” he said coldly, “I remember the night behind the farm. You have reminded me that I once had decent instincts. Sergeant, here’s your prisoner.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
HIATUS
I find that my memory holds no proper record of the hour that elapsed between this time and our return to Nanette. There were certain unavoidable formalities to be gone through; but within ten minutes of the arrest of Zara, I was on the telephone to my rooms. My man answered; and his replies, whilst reticent, were reassuring.
“Mr. Milton has been removed to hospital, sir. A very narrow escape, I understand. It will be a long job, but he is in no danger. Yes, sir, the lady is”—pause—“still here.”
“Why?” I asked uneasily, and glanced at O’Shea, who was standing at my elbow throughout this conversation.
“They—didn’t like to move her, sir. I ’phoned to Sir Frank Leslie, in Harley Street, sir, by request. He is here.”
“But where is—the lady?”
“Sorry, sir, but she is—in your room. Her mother is with her, sir.”
“Is she dangerously ill?”
“I don’t really know, sir. Both the medical men are with her now.”
As I replaced the receiver, I stared at O’Shea. He had moved away from me and was pacing restlessly up and down the bleakly furnished room in New Scotland Yard from which we had been speaking.
“You understand?” I said. “She is—rather badly hurt.”
“I understand.” He nodded grimly. “She saved my life, Decies, perhaps at the price of her own. I can’t bear to think of it.”
He turned abruptly and stared out of the window at a vista of empty Embankment below, lighted by many twinkling lamps.
“I have been a self-reliant man all my life, Decies; it may be aggressively so. Perhaps this is poetic justice. Since the moment that I set foot in Madeira, up to this very hour, she has done my work for me, step by step. You admit it, Decies? You admit it?”
“I do,” said I. “It’s true, but no discredit to you.”
He shook his head and resumed the restless pacing. I saw him groping for his monocle, which he had left at his rooms prior to setting out for the raid on the S Group, and I saw him snap his fingers irritably as he realized how enslaved he was to this habit.
“I have placed independence above every other virtue in man,” he went on. “I have fought for it and suffered for it. I suppose she has been sent to teach me that independence and loneliness are inseparable. Do you know,” he turned and looked fully into my eyes, with an expression almost of humility, “I don’t think I could bear that lonely path any longer, Decies. And if—” he paused and squared his jaw for a moment—“and if I have to follow it, there won’t be very much left.”
“Shut up!” I said. “You are talking nonsense. If you elect to be lonely in future, the choice is yours.”
“Unless…” he smiled wryly.
“Don’t think of that!” I replied. “She is young and full of stamina. Besides, she wants to live.”
“And I want her to live,” he added softly. “Yet, even now, I can’t believe it—and I can’t quite condone it.”
“Condone what?” I demanded.
“The acceptance, by a man of my age, world-worn, a little disappointed, more than a little cynical, of such a sacrifice, from a girl with all the world to choose from. I can find no justification.”
“I see,” I murmured. “And can you find any for leaving her, now that you know? Because you can’t shut your eyes to the fact that this is not a schoolgirl’s infatuation, but the real thing. Can you condone that?”
My voice was not quite steady.
“She was ready to die for you, O’Shea,” I said. “It would break her heart to lose you. Damn it!” I pulled out my cigarette case, “I am talking like your sentimental aunt.”
O’Shea smiled, this time more happily, and grasped my shoulder in characteristic fashion.
“I believe we are both behaving rather idiotically,” he admitted. “Let’s hope for the best.”
“I don’t believe you would recognize it if it came to you,” I returned.
He shrugged his shoulders and we went up to a room on the floor above, where some sort of superior official was waiting. Throughout the interview that followed O’Shea became again the steely-eyed, square-jawed soldier whom I knew so well; the traditional O’Shea, whose name had been a tonic to many a man during those black days when the shadow of Prussia lay over Europe.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE HEART OF NANETTE
I seemed to detect an ominous air of hush as I opened the door for O’Shea and myself to go up to my apartments. Nanette’s mother met us. I could scarcely bear to look at her. Almost immediately, she fixed her eyes upon O’Shea.
“Major O’Shea,” she began bravely, “I have known for a long time how Nanette felt about you.…”
“And I suppose you have reproached me,” said he.
“I have not,” she returned. “I have had many opportunities of watching, and I know that your behaviour has been admirable, if…” she hesitated.
“Yes?” O’Shea urged gently.
“If she has really meant anything to you. Be frank with me, Major O’Shea. Has she?”
“She has,” he replied gravely. “I didn’t know, but I know now.”
“It is frightfully hard to say,” she went on, “but…” she turned to me impulsively. “Can you help me, Mr. Decies?”
“I think I can,” said I. “There is no reason why my friend, Major O’Shea, should not marry Nanette, unless there is any on your side. Personally, he thinks he is too old for her!” This last remark I added in what was meant to be a facetious manner, for the situation was difficult to cope with. “But please tell us—how is she?”
“She will recover,” was the reply, “thanks to the speedy attention that she received. Failing this, it might have been—otherwise. I am afraid she cannot be moved for some time, Mr. Decies. It will be a dreadful inconvenience for you.…”
“And a great honour,” I added. “Is it possible to see her?”
“I don’t know if it is advisable. But she is asking to see”—glancing at O’Shea—“someone.”
O’Shea bit his lip—the nearest approach to a display of emotion that I had ever observed in him—and turned quickly aside.
Then followed a period of waiting. Nanette’s girl friend came down, having been relieved by a professional nurse. She smiled at O’Shea, and blushed furiously; an unusual accomplishment in a girl of her type and age. But the smile and the blush told me more of the state of Nanette’s heart than a long dissertation could have revealed.
The young medical officer appeared at last, and his expression was reassuring.
“Can we go up?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied; “I have Sir Frank’s permission to admit you for three minutes, but no more than three minutes.”
He stared significantly at O’Shea.
In a queerly furtive fashion I began to mount the stairs of my own house, treading softly as upon holy ground and going with bated breath. O’Shea moved equally silently. I cannot say what his feelings were at this moment, for I did not even look at him. But when we came to the door of the sick room that had been my bedroom, it was opened by a white-capped nurse, and we entered, catlike as burglars.
Nanette lay propped up in my bed, with closed eyes. She was pale, but, in that hour, more adorable than ever. Her mother sat over by an open window, watching, and Sir Frank Leslie stood beside the bed. We crept forward, abashed as detected criminals. But Nanette did not stir, until:
“Someone has come to say good-night to you, dear,” said her mother.
Then the drooping lids quivered, and she raised her blue eyes. I cannot say if she saw O’Shea, or merely pretended that she did not see him; but admittedly he was standing behind me. She laid her hand in mine, and:
“Thank you, Mr. Decies,” she murmured, in a pathetically weak voice. “I am going to be a frightful nuisance to you. In future, I shall try to arrange to be shot in my own bedroom.”
She closed her eyes again, wearily, and dropped her hand upon the coverlet. Sir Frank beckoned to me to step aside. I did so.
O’Shea drew nearer.
“I have come to thank you, Nanette,” he said.
He sat on the chair beside her, bending forward. Slowly, she turned her head, raised weary lids again, and looked at him. She stayed so for what seemed a very long time; just looking—looking—and questioning. He stooped nearer and nearer, until suddenly, but very weakly, a white arm crept around his neck and little trembling fingers were plunged into his hair.
Nanette drew his head down upon the pillow beside her, sighed, and closed her eyes again happily.
I turned away, staring at her mother. Then I caught Sir Frank’s glance. He began to tiptoe toward the door, nodded significantly to the nurse—and shepherded us out of the sick room!
The last to leave, I looked back, guiltily, for one moment. Nanette was fast asleep, for they had given her an opiate. And she lay with her head nestling upon O’Shea’s shoulder.
I shall always remember her smile.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. lounge-chair/lounge chair, shore-signal/shore signal, etc.) have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Abandon the use of drop-caps.
Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings/nestings.
[Chapter IV]
Change (“Please, mumsy,” she pleaded—“until I have) to Mumsy.
[Chapter XXIV]
“He is a member of a very dangerout organization” to dangerous.
[Chapter XXVIII]
“There was no one on the stairs, and no one. in the long, glazed” delete the period.
[End of text]