My room and Mansel’s shared a small balcony, and that night Tester waked me by putting his nose on my arm. I was up in an instant, for the dog was plainly uneasy and I feared that something was wrong. As I passed barefoot to the window, I saw that the light was burning in Mansel’s room. …
Mansel was on his knees by the side of the bed, with one arm across his eyes, like a weeping child, and the other hand full of the curls which lay in a little heap in the midst of the counterpane.
For a long time he never moved, but at last he lifted his head and, when the dog came running, he picked him up in his arms.
I stole back to bed.
The next day was Sunday.
Mansel started for Salzburg at seven o’clock, taking Carson with him, and the rest of us left for the hog’s back within the hour.
I ran into Rouse on the doorstep, as I was leaving the inn.
“I must beg your pardon,” he said, “for the way I spoke last night. It was very wrong of me. And I feel you were most justly provoked.” He laughed inanely. “I was very disappointed myself. But I do hope Captain Mansel won’t take it up with Mr. Wilberforce. After all, we’re all liable to make mistakes, and I’m sure he had no intention of playing a joke.”
At first I could make no reply.
At length—
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m afraid we were rather—rather hasty. Supper’s a bad time, you know.”
With that, I rushed off, before he could clasp my hand.
When I told Hanbury—
“The man’s half-witted,” he said. “And I’m ashamed of myself for bringing him down. I don’t wonder Rose Noble hangs his hat on him. I think we should soon find Adèle, if he had a comic idiot round his neck.”
“Yet Mansel has hopes of him,” said I.
“As a hatstand,” said George. “That’s all.”
Not until ten that night did Mansel return to the inn.
We had come in at sundown, and Rouse had badgered us nearly out of our lives, for, remembering our offences of the night before, we felt constrained to be civil, and the fact that the day was Sunday seemed to entitle his cloth to consideration. Before retiring, he asked if he might read us the Gospel. We could hardly refuse, but I fear it did us no good and only enlarged the sympathy we felt for his flock.
Very soon after, we heard the sigh of the Rolls, and a moment later Mansel entered the room.
“Gone to bed?” he said, looking round.
“Ten minutes ago,” said I, “by the grace of God.”
“Then you’re friends again,” said Mansel.
I told him how Rouse had spoken on the steps of the inn and what we had suffered since sundown at the hands of the fool.
“Good,” said he. “Any news?”
“Devil a bit,” said I. “And you?”
“Salzburg’s no earthly,” says he. “Indeed, I was so sure of that that I’ve been at Poganec all day.” We opened our eyes. “But don’t tell Hannibal R.”
“He never dreamed you’d gone to Salzburg. If he had—”
“Oh, yes, he did,” said Mansel, sitting down in a chair. “But he knew I should waste my time. I tell you, he’s pretty hot stuff, is Hannibal R. And you must admit he’s put up a wonderful show. Talk about sheep’s clothing.”
Hanbury was looking at me in a helpless way, and I fancy he found slight comfort in my expression, for he soon returned to Mansel, and I did the same.
“Last night,” said Mansel, “you asked me if I believed him. The true answer was ‘No’; and the whole truth, ‘I never did.’
“And now listen.”
“The moment I saw him, I felt sure that he was our man. He was where I had expected to find him, and he couldn’t escape, because he had a flat tire. Yet in the first five minutes he played the fool so beautifully that against my better judgment I found my suspicions failing and I had to fight with myself to keep them alive. And then he made a mistake. It was a very slight one, and I don’t think he thought I saw. He did a thing that no clergyman that wears a round collar would ever do. He put up two hands, as though to straighten a tie.”
He paused there, to pour himself some ale: and, when he had drunk, he lighted a cigarette.
“Well,” he continued, “the obvious thing to do was to play his game—satisfy him that we didn’t suspect him at all. And that’s why I didn’t tell you. Your undisguised contempt for him has been simply invaluable. I should think he’s been revelling in it—I know I have. By the way, I’m telling you now, because you won’t see him again—at least, not upon the same terms.
“Now, first, what was his job? His job was to keep in touch. Rose Noble holds a fine hand, but he knows us too well to sleep sound when we’re out of his ken. So Rouse was to keep in touch—an extremely difficult, job. We were six to one, you see, and ready to find a spy under every hat. So what does he do but step in under our guard? It was done in the War, you know: but only a born artist can bring it off. And Rouse is an old master.
“And now for his value to us. It may become imperative that a spy should return to his chief. Very well. If Rouse thought we suspected him, he’d never return, until he had shaken us off. Never. But, now that he knows we don’t, he’ll go when he thinks he’d better and never take the trouble
