Behind the scenes of destiny

Front matter

Class ^ 3 _

Book.*_ L _

Qm.

II

As the two girls walked away from the embassy after being introduced by Reaves, he stood still and watched them until they were lost in the crowd then he turned and walked away in a different direction. He left the crowded busy section of the city, glad for the time to be away from the excitement and noise, and strolled along alone thinking. Not only were storms raging between nations, individuals were singled out as well. He was a victim, and danger threatened him from many angles. Almost unknowingly he had allowed himself to be led perilously close to the brink of an abyss— and by an innocent American girl. It was true that she had absolutely no knowledge of the danger to him, if she mentioned his name to Theresa Busch, but he could not tell her, and the mere mention of the fact that he was in Berlin might prove the spark to set off the charge and ex¬ plode all his plans. It was not that he did not trust Miss Rotherford but his sixth sense had warned him and he usually followed the course directed by his intuition, when it took issue with his judgment. He walked for more than an hour. It was a custom of his when under great mental strain to do part of his thinking while walking alone. He did not deem it wise to return to his room at the hotel that night. Theresa might report his presence in the city to Captain Heine and tell that officer all she knew about him. If she did, the Imperial secret service would immediately be on the lookout for him.

Darkness must appear before he could make his way un¬ seen to the place where he expected to spend the night and wait until he heard from Miss Beeman. He continued his walk for some time until he came to a narrow alley on the farther side of which was an old house, a relic of better days. It was set back a considerable distance from the street in a very secluded location. He was no longer the light-hearted, gallant American gentleman. He had in his head many valuable secrets of the German war office and the weight of their importance and the fear that Theresa would expose him made him feel that hidden eyes were watching his every move.

He stopped and looked around him, and seeing that he had not been followed, opened the secret gate noiselessly and went into the garden at the rear of the house. After listening a moment and looking around him again to make sure that his hiding place had not been discovered, he went to the back door and took a key from his pocket and let himself in. As he turned to close the door he was facing the west, he paused before closing it, a cloud of gold and purple was rapidly turning into darkness. In that direction was America, home, and the last rays of light seemed to beckon to him. He stood in the doorway for a moment lost in thought, then shook his head gravely, as he murmured aloud in the night: “America my home, but I may never see Her again.”

He closed and locked the door and went into a basement room which was sparsely furnished. In the center was a small desk, two or three chairs and a divan were placed about the floor. He walked over to the mantlepiece and pushed a hidden button three times. In a moment a man appeared noiselessly from seemingly nowhere. He had come from a cellar along the wall of an underground exit.

“Any news, Gus?” he asked as he took a seat and put his feet upon the desk.

“Here is a note, sir,” replied the old man as he took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to him.

Gus Lenaire was born in Alsace, after that part of France was ceded to Germany by the treaty of Versailles. He fought under the Tricolor during the war of 1870-71. Gus married a German girl and went to live in Berlin. They had one son, Gus Junior, who was at that time in the German army and on duty at the internment camp near the city. Gus thoroughly disliked everything German, and he never lost an opportunity to instill the same spirit into his son. His wife had died years before, and since her death he had lost interest in life, and his hatred for the Germans made it easy for him to accept aid in return for giving important information to the enemies of Germany.

Reaves placed the sealed envelope which Gus had given him upon the desk and reached for his pipe and after filling it with tobacco leaned back in his chair and started to blow little rings of smoke towards the ceiling. From the message in the little purple envelope he must decide whether he would continue to be Frederick Reaves jn Berlin; or disappear from public view.

To calmly balance chances in time of great danger, to weigh the character of the people with whom you are deal¬ ing, formulate your plans, and then proceed quietly with their execution, requires the exercise of a highly-ordered and well-trained mind.

Reaves had promised to meet Miss Rotherford again at the embassy the next morning and he hoped that she might feel disappointed if he broke his appointment. Her tall, graceful figure, those large, blue eyes, her open, yet deter¬ mined, face, all combined, were calculated to make any man want to keep an appointment with her, but it all depended on Miss Beeman’s report, and if he could not keep the appoint¬ ment he would send her a message to that effect.

Men of great courage face a crisis with perfect calm, but are often nervous and irritable while waiting for the ap¬ proach of the event. The gambler will take a chance, but the brave man gathers up the threads of despair, weighs his chances, and courageously sets to work trying to turn defeat into victory. It was in this frame of mind that Frederick Reaves picked up the little envelope and tore it open and read:

“We interviewed Miss Busch, she assured us that she would use her influence with friends and acquaint¬ ances in the cause of Americans marooned in this coun¬ try. While we were there Capt. Heine came to take her out for dinner. When the Capt. came in Miss Rotherford looked surprised and remarked that but for his uniform he certainly would be your double. Miss Busch became a little excited at the mention of your name. I shall follow them and report to you immedi¬ ately anything suspicious.”

When he had finished reading he struck a match and held the little bit of paper until the blaze almost burned his fingers. He had long since learned that to tear up such notes was dangerous. Once several years before while he was on the witness stand in a famous case, a piece of card¬ board was handed him on which were pasted a hundred tiny pieces of paper, and an unsympathetic lawyer said in a gruff voice, “Do you recognize that, Mr. Reaves?” He did not intend that question should be put to him by a less sympathetic German advocate; anyway his memory was the great record file in which he stored innumerable secrets. That was always with him and he could consult it at any time.

As he sat there puffing the little rings of smoke, his countenance softened and a gentle smile played over his face. Miss Beeman had sent in her first report. Theresa had found out that he was in Berlin and had not exposed him and denounced him on the spot, but he had no assur¬ ance that she would not do it later, even that very night to Captain Heine.

Theresa’s father was a German; her mother was an American. Fifty per cent American blood in Germany against fifty per cent. German blood in Germany—which will win? He asked himself.

Theresa Busch was born in one of the large cities of America. Her people were prominent in both financial and social circles; she was graduated from one of America’s great colleges for women; after which she spent two years studying art in Berlin, living with her German relatives during that time. The story of their meeting, and the love affair between herself and Frederick Reaves has been chron¬ icled by hundreds of writers, but none has pictured a love more beautiful or a devotion more real. Cupid never smiled with more joy than when they met, and never shed more bitter tears than when they parted. When she was introduced to society she was considered the season’s most popular debutante. She was beautiful, accomplished and possessed a most attractive personality. Why, then didn’t he trust her? Why did he stand in constant fear of the woman he once would have given his life for? The answer to these questions has ever been the riddle of the ages. He knew that her German blood might weigh heavily in her decision, but that would not be the main factor in her de¬ cision. Women are ever mysterious, giving away to their sentiments, becoming a victim of their emotions; and she was of the frivolous type, inexperienced, and lacking in stability, ever exercising the recognized right of the sex to change their opinion when it suits them. Such traits, coupled with extreme self-esteem make an unknown problem, the answer to which neither X nor figures can help you to find.

Defeat engenders hatred, and in a sentimental battle of youthful love both had lost. In a fit of temper over a trivial affair she had told him that she hated him. That was several years before and probably at that time neither of them knew that hatred was near akin to love. He had been persistent and tried to smooth over their difficulties but she had refused to listen to his arguments and finally she had told him to leave her. He had replied that he would. And now the great question he was pondering over was— did she still hate him sufficiently to expose him at this critical time in his career? After pondering over his situa¬ tion for sometime he called Gus and told him that he was retiring in the room which opened into the secret exit and to call him if any messages came for him.

The love for native country, that great feeling we call patriotism which is composed of sentiment, reason, courage, all of which probably originated from the universally recog¬ nized right of man to live in his own little home in his own way unmolested, has through all the ages been one of the noblest traits of the human character. The man who will not fight for his home and country is in this enlightened age a social outcast, the slacker is blacklisted and goes through life as a man not respected, while the soldier, whether private or general, is a hero. Due credit for brave deeds is not always given until years after wars are ended, but in the calm aftermath, sober and sane judgments prevail, the slacker sneaks away and hides, the pacifist ceases to criticize his government and public sentiment crystallizes into sympathetic reverence, and when the defenders of their country pass by on a holiday parade, bearing their flag and dressed in their moth-eaten, threadbare uniforms, a cheer goes up from every throat.

In time of war there are many brave men whose physical deformities render them unfit for military service, there are others engaged in important work outside the ranks, but the slacker, the shirker, the man who tries to evade military service and the man who preaches peace when there is no peace with honor, such men are ulcers on civilization, and it is the duty of a nation to take serious steps against such men in the interest of good government.

The clash of arms, the strife of war stimulates in the brave the noblest elements of character, and the highest acts of service are often done in the most intense periods of excite¬ ment. The brave arise to meet the emergency while the weak wail under the burden of danger and are lost.

Reaves arose early the next morning and prepared for the day’s work. He walked with a light step towards the embassy to keep his appointment with Miss Rotherford. He had heard nothing more from Miss Beeman but he knew that she would keep in touch with Miss Busch and Captain Heine and report to him if immediate danger threatened him from that source.

Miss Beeman did not know of his past romance with Miss Busch, but she knew there was some good reason for his sending her with Miss Rotherford to interview this American girl who was supposed to be studying art in the city. The excitement which she manifested when Reaves’ name was mentioned in the presence of Captain Heine, be¬ tokened both mystery and suspicion which was sufficient reason for her to follow them when they went out for dinner.

Ill

It was the morning of the fourth of August. The city was wild with rumors. The streets were still packed with masses of people; men, women and children lined the side¬ walks of the main thoroughfares being pushed back from the streets by a strong cordon of police so that the endless line of soldiers could continue its uninterrupted march. The streets leading into the line of march were a dense mass of humanity, bidding Godspeed to the soldiers. An occasional mother or wife would call out from the crowd as a dear one passed by, “My boy,” or “My husband.” Those nearby would look around for a moment and see them bravely wipe away a tear and turn again to look upon those dear to other mothers and wives.

News had already arrived of the fighting on the Belgian border and of the Uhlans crossing the French border. In front of the billboards of the different newspaper offices there was the greatest excitement. A man would come out of the front door and post a fresh news item.

“His Majesty’s soldiers have crossed the border into Bel¬ gium,” or “His Majesty’s cannon are blowing up the forts of Liege,” and the crowd would let out one of its cheers. After several messages were posted there was a long wait, then the messenger came out and made his way to the bulletin board, walking more slowly than before. The yells suddenly stopped, conversation ceased and all was still, that sudden and oppressive stillness which comes from deep anxiety from impending danger. The simple, and to those self-centered people the unbelievable dispatch was posted.

“The British Ambassador asks for his passport.”

It was an easy way of breaking the news that Great Britain had declared war but the people understood the meaning of the message. They were dumbfounded. They had figured England ^was neutral, but Old England, true to her tradition did not intend to make of a solemn treaty a mere scrap of paper.

Frederick Reaves gazed at the last dispatch for a full minute, then turned and walked rapidly away. He had known that England would stand by her treaty obligations, but he did not expect her to declare war for a day or two. What had become of Lord Cullen? Had he left the city? He was under many obligations to his English friend and he sincerely hoped that he had left the country. He was well known in the city and knowing many of his Majesty’s valu¬ able secrets, they would certainly search the city to find him.

Lord Cullen was a typical Englishman, of an old and aristocratic family, who could trace their ancestry almost back to the Garden of Eden. Many of his ancestors had been prominent in the history of England, both on the battlefield and in the Forum. In tracing what he knew of Lord Cullen’s ancestry back and forth in his mind and thinking what a staunch friend he had been to him Reaves in a measure forgot the natural antipathy which he as a citizen of the great American republic had for a human being who has the title of Lord, which he has taken in vain, or had thrust upon him. He had seen the real man in him, in spite of the false assumption of the name of that Mighty Spirit before whom all should reverently bow.

He walked on to the embassy and into one of the private offices where he was closeted with a high official for several minutes. Afterwards he went into the hall where he soon found Miss Rotherford who seemed a little perturbed at the news that England had declared war.

“I simply cannot realize it,” she told him.

“But, my dear lady,” he exclaimed, “what else did you expect? England keeps her treaty obligations.”

“Oh, it is not that, Mr. Reaves, you do not understand,” she told him with a distressed look plainly showing on her face. “Oh, I almost hate these Germans,” she continued.

He moved a step closer to her. “Please be careful, Miss Rotherford, this city is a perfect network of secret service operatives, only yesterday I saw one about here dressed as an American tourist.”

She was a little frightened at his warning and he looked at her with a smile as he said, “I only meant to caution you.”

“Thank you so much, I am a bit upset this morning and I expect I need it.”

“The embassy will have a tough job from now on,” he remarked, trying to get her mind off her anxiety.

“What’s happened now?” she asked.

“Well, they will have to handle the British affairs, and with the business of the French and Russian Embassies, they will have to work night and day.”

“If we can only get the Americans across the border, I shall be greatly relieved,” she remarked.

“Haven’t you heard that the ban on passes has been lifted and that quite a lot of them are going out today?”

“I had not, but I am delighted; you seem to know every¬ thing that is going on notwithstanding the fact you are unable to move the machinery yourself. Are you sure the order has been issued?” she continued, feeling that the news could hardly be true.

“Quite sure, Miss Rotherford, the embassy had a message to that effect this morning. Now the thing that has wor¬ ried you is all arranged.”

She looked away and it was plain that something else was worrying her.

He watched her for a moment silently then asked,

“Isn’t there something further that I can do to assist you, Miss Rotherford?”

She slowly turned an appealing face to him and remarked rather sadly, “I was thinking of the English who you say will be interned. I have some friends among them and it would be terrible to be in prison here when there are so many opportunities of rendering service at home.”

“If you will give me their names there might be something I can do,” he said.

She hesitated long before replying; she thought this man had failed the day before, yet she probably would not have gone to see Theresa Busch if he had not insisted upon it, and probably Theresa, through her friend, Captain Heine, had started the machinery going. How was it that he seemed to know everything that was going on before anyone else? Who was this polite, smiling American, anyway, she thought to herself ? She looked at him, he was perfectly calm standing there with those penetrating eyes fixed upon her, a smile playing upon his handsome face.

Finally she mentioned several names ending with Lord Cullen.

“I know quite a lot of those whose names you have men¬ tioned,” he spoke up and after a moment’s hesitation he added, “The ladies will probably get home with little trou¬ ble, but the men may not fare so well.”

“Do you know Lord Cullen?” she asked, looking at him seriously.

“Very well, indeed.”

“Where is Lord Cullen at this moment?” she asked, look¬ ing surprised that Reaves knew him.

“I do not know,” he answered guardedly.

“He was here two days ago,” she continued, “and I am so afraid these horrid secret service people or police will pre¬ vent his getting back home. It would kill his mother and sister,” she ended with a look of genuine distress.

“Is his sister still here?”

“No, she went on to Paris several days ago and will await Lord Cullen there, and they will go back to England im¬ mediately. I warned him, but just like the English he is stubborn and said he would probably stay here several days even though England might declare war. He sometimes visits an American friend of his who lives in a hotel, they seem to be great friends but he has never told me the name of his friend nor the hotel in which he lives.”

Strange coincidents happen to us as we travel life’s path¬ way from the space we call time to the place we call eternity. Frederick Reaves knew from the moment Lord Cullen’s name was mentioned that before him stood the American heiress with whom his friend Lord Cullen was in love. He had spoken of her often but always referred to her as his American girl. He could not help feeling a little resentment or jealousy at her intense feeling for this Englishman, and he hated to think that the name of this charming girl might some day be added to the long list of foolish American girls who in their efforts to find happiness had exchanged a for¬ tune for a title, and in the end through temperamental in¬ compatibilities or worse causes, she, like the others would return to America, and her parents, after being dragged through the loathsome medium of the divorce court. Yet his common sense prevailed and he decided that was no time to add to his own troubles by interfering with international love affairs, and that the best thing for him to do under the circumstances was to keep her in ignorance of his real identity and proceed to get Lord Cullen out of Berlin as quickly as possible. While thus engaged in thought she said to him,

“If you will only find Lord Cullen and see that he leaves the city before it is too late,—and you will,” she pleaded, “won’t you ?”

It was on his tongue to assure her that the man she loved would soon be back in England, occupying his seat at the war office, but he checked the impulse and said,

“I shall do my very best, Miss Rotherford, and in the meantime, when are you leaving for home?”

“I shall start for England within a week, then I will be the guest of Lord Cullen’s sister, but I do not know when I shall go to America.”

“Will I find you here at the embassy tomorrow?” he asked somewhat abruptly, realizing that he was losing valu¬ able time.

“I shall be here mornings for at least two or three days more, and let us say we will meet here at ten-thirty, tomor¬ row morning.”

“I hope to be here with definite news from Lord Cullen,” was his reply, and as he started off he turned back and whispered to her softly—“and if you don’t hurry, the man you love will be in England before you start.”

IV

Theresa Busch and Captain Heine sat quietly at a table in the rear of the great dining room at the Adlon Hotel. The Captain had selected the seats so that he would be facing the entrance, where he could get a full view of every person who entered the room. Theresa talked of past social events to which he had taken her and things in general for some¬ time, while he had but little to say. The conversation finally turning to the war.

‘‘England has declared war on us,” said Captain Heine sarcastically, “and is sending her little contemptible army to France, but it will arrive too late, we will be in Paris before a division has crossed the Channel.”

Theresa looked at him sharply but realizing that he was in a bad mood said nothing.

At the beginning of the war the sympathy of America was divided between the Triple Entente and the Triple Alliance, and until Germany started her ruthless submarine warfare the division of sentiment was nearer equal than many people believed at that time.

Theresa Busch inherited from her father his strong dis¬ like for England. England, he had said, was a selfish, jealous nation, ever concentrating her energies against any nation that threatened her supremacy in Europe. Her old game of working one nation against another and always keeping sufficient strength on her side to control the situation, had irritated the German diplomats since the days of Bis¬ marck; and by means of her wonderful system of schools that spirit of hatred had permeated the whole German nation. It had become a fixed idea, a sort of obsession. England some day must be crushed, but first they must humble Russia and France. But how to deceive England and keep peace with her until France and Russia could be crushed was the great problem. An idea sown in fertile soil grows like an acorn to a great oak, and as it grows it gains momentum. In this case the German nation did not balance chances, weigh possibilities and provide for con¬ tingencies. Germany had become a powerful nation, she had the best trained army in the world, she had a great navy and her merchant ships, carrying the world’s commerce, plied the seven seas. Her commercial machinery at home was complete in every detail. No nation had ever accom¬ plished so much in such a short space of time. She was accustomed to conquering and doing things which counted in the world of nations. Didn’t Frederick the Great conquer Europe, and dictate the humiliating peace treaties, and Blucher conquer Napoleon, after he had defeated Welling¬ ton’s army? And only a few years before, Napoleon the third had surrendered at Sedan, and Bismarck had dictated the treaty of Paris. They felt that Germany was the greatest nation on earth, and therefore invincible; and the Kaiser himself had said, “Gott mit uns.”

Captain Heine talked for some minutes about the fighting qualities of the German army and Theresa listened to him with great interest, which sometimes arose to enthusiasm.

“Of course,” she told him, “there should be no doubt about the outcome, because Germany is prepared and will have won the war before England can render assistance.”

She did not talk on the subject with her usual vivacious¬ ness. Sometimes her cheeks grew a little pale and the beau¬ tiful face at times had a troubled expression. She would sit perfectly still gazing steadily into the handsome face before her. The light hair, the thin face, those blue eyes and that Roman nose; only the mouth and moustache she did not like, but he was nevertheless just as Miss Rotherford had said when he walked into the sitting room—Fred¬ erick Reaves’ double. She told herself that she hated Frederick Reaves, but her hatred was born of defeat. He had left her strictly alone when she had asked him to. The old saying that hatred is near akin to love only applies to the feelings of a woman for a man and with a man he knows when he is in love. Love dies hard, but when once dead it is the deadest thing that ever died, a matter of principle; character must be involved and if the cause is sufficient, forgetfulness of that which was good causes love to turn to hatreds

Theresa knew that Captain Heine was a secret service agent of the German war office—having recently won his promotion for efficient work in ferreting out some interna¬ tional intrigue. One word to him, and Reaves, the man she once loved, would be arrested and put in prison or perhaps shot as a spy. On her way to the hotel, while listening to Captain Heine’s conversation, she had made up her mind that she would tell him that night. No better opportunity could ever be found than the present, and she must soon decide. The last course of their elaborate meal was being served and he would soon be taking her back to her cousin’s home, yet she hesitated.

Tradition has it that woman’s nature is ever shrouded in mystery, ever pictorially romantic, a shifting, moving, in¬ telligence, subject to whims, emotions, sentiment and en¬ vironment. Kipling evidently had these things in mind when he said that the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

While Theresa was reflecting over the consequences in her intended act, he spoke to her and she was startled.

“I must hurry back,” he said, “there is important business which must be attended to at the war office tonight. If you have finished your coffee, we will be going. My de¬ partment is very busy during these strenuous days,” he added seriously, glancing in another direction.

She was frightened. She must tell him now; but she simply could not utter the words. “Yes,” she finally said, after a long pause, “I had forgotten that—er—that you have to be going, but I quite understand.”

Whatever might be said of Theresa’s German sympathies or her manifest hatred for the man who had upset her early life, she had never mentioned his name to Captain Heine or her cousins. They only knew that she had had a love affair in America and come to Germany to study art and try to forget. She had their full sympathy but they asked no questions.