“There seems to be some one on this ship,” he said quietly, “who knows more than is good for him.”
.
CHAPTER XIV
The City of Boston passed through the danger zone in safety, and dropped anchor in the Mersey only a few hours later than the time of her expected arrival. Towards the close of a somewhat uproarious dinner, during which many bottles of champagne were emptied to various toasts, Captain Jones quite unexpectedly entered the saloon, and, waving his hand in response to the cheers which greeted him, made his way to his usual table, from which he addressed the little company.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make to which I beg you will listen with patience. Both the English and the American police, whether with reason or not, as we may presently determine, have come to the conclusion that a large number of very important documents, collected in America by the agents of a foreign power, have been smuggled across the Atlantic upon this ship, in the hope that they may eventually reach Germany. In a quarter of an hour’s time, a number of plainclothes policemen will be on board. I am going to ask you, as loyal British and American subjects, to subject yourselves, without resistance or complaint, to any search which they may choose to make. I may add that my own person, luggage and cabin will be the first object of their attention.” The captain, having delivered his address, left the saloon again amidst a little buzz of voices. There had probably never been a voyage across the Atlantic in which a matter of forty passengers had been treated to so many rumours and whispers of strange happenings. Sam West got up and spoke a few words, counselling the ready assent of every one there to submit to anything that was thought necessary. He briefly commented upon their unexplained but fortuitous escape from the raider, and heaped congratulations upon their captain. Very soon after he had resumed his seat, the shrill whistle of a tug alongside indicated the arrival of visitors. A steward passed back and forth amongst the passengers with a universal request — all were asked to repair to their staterooms. Twenty-seven exceedingly alert-looking men thereupon commenced their task.
Seated upon the couch in her room, with a cup of coffee by her side and a cigarette between her lips, Katharine listened to the conversation which passed in the opposite room, the one which had been tenanted by Phillips. For some reason, the end of the voyage, instead of bringing her the relief which she had expected, had only increased her nervous excitement. She was filled with an extraordinary prescience of some coming crisis. She found herself trembling as she listened to Doctor Gant’s harsh voice and the smooth accents of his interlocutor.
“Well, that completes our search of your belongings, Doctor Gant,” the latter’s voice observed. “Now I want to ask a few questions with reference to the Mr. Phillips who I understand died the day before yesterday under your charge.” “That is so,” Doctor Gant agreed. “He had no luggage, as we only made up our minds to undertake the journey with him at the last moment. The few oddments he used on the voyage, we burned.”
“And the body, I understand,—”
“You can examine it at once, if you will,” the doctor interrupted. “We have purposely left the coffin lid only partly screwed down. I should like to say, however, that before arranging the deceased for burial, I asked the ship’s doctor to make an examination with me of the coffin and the garments which I used. He signed the certificate, and he will be ready to answer any questions.”
“That seems entirely satisfactory,” the detective confessed. “I will just have the coffin lid off for a few moments, and will see the doctor before I leave the ship.”
The men left the room together and were absent some ten minutes. Presently the detective returned to Katharine’s room, and with him came Crawshay. Katharine had discarded the nurse’s costume which she had usually worn on board ship, and was wearing the black tailor-made suit in which she had expected to land. In the dim light, her pallor and nervous condition almost startled Crawshay.
“You will forgive my intrusion,” he said. “I have just been explaining your presence here to Mr. Brightman, the detective, and I don’t think he will trouble you for more than a few minutes.”
“Please treat me exactly as the others,” she begged.
The search proceeded for a few moments in silence. Then the detective looked up from the dressing case which he was examining. In his hand he held the envelope addressed to Mrs. Phillips.
“Do you mind telling me what this is, Miss Beverley?” he asked.
“It is a roll of bills,” she replied, “that belonged to Mr. Phillips. I promised to see them handed over to his wife.”
Brightman glanced at the address and balanced the envelope on the palm of his hand.
“It is against the law,” he told her, “for a passenger to be the bearer of any sealed letter.”
Katharine shrugged her shoulders.
“I am very sorry,” she said, “but the packet which you have did not come from America at all. It was sealed up on board this ship at the time when I accepted the charge of its delivery. There is no letter or communication of any sort inside.”
“You will not object,” the detective enquired, “to my opening it?”
She frowned impatiently.
“I can assure you,” she repeated, “that I saw the notes put inside an empty envelope. Mr. Crawshay will tell you that my word is to be relied upon.”
“Implicitly, Miss Beverley,” Crawshay pronounced emphatically, “but under the circumstances I think no harm would be done if you allowed our friend just to glance inside. The notes can easily be sealed up in another envelope.”
“Just as you like,” she acquiesced coolly. “You will find nothing but bills there.”
Brightman tore open the envelope and glanced inside as though he did not intend further to disturb it. Suddenly his face changed. He shook out the contents upon the little table. They all three looked at the pile of papers with varying expressions. In Katharine’s face there was nothing but blank bewilderment, in Crawshay’s something of horror, in the detective’s a faint gleam of triumph. He pressed his finger down on the heading of the first sheet of paper.
“I am not much of a German scholar,” he observed. “How do you translate that, Mr. Crawshay?”
Crawshay was silent for several moments. Then in a perfectly mechanical tone he read out the heading:
“‘List of our agents in New York and district who may be absolutely trusted for any enterprise.’”
There was another dead silence, a silence, on Katharine’s part, of complete mental paralysis. Crawshay’s face had lost all its smooth petulance. He was like a man who had received a blow.
“But I don’t understand,” Katharine faltered at last. “That packet has not been out of my possession, and I saw the notes put into it.”
“By whom?” Crawshay demanded.
“By Mr. Phillips,” she declared steadfastly, “by Mr. Phillips and Doctor Gant together.”
The detective turned the envelope over in his hand.
“The bills seem to have disappeared,” he observed.
“They were in that envelope,” Katharine persisted. “I have never seen those papers before in my life.”
Brightman’s face remained immovable. One by one he slipped the papers back into the envelope, thrust them into his breast pocket, and, turning round, locked the door.
“You must forgive me if the rest of our investigations may seem unnecessarily severe, Miss Beverley,” he said.
Katharine sank back upon the sofa. She was utterly bewildered by the events of the last few minutes. The search of her belongings was now being conducted with ruthless persistence. Her head was buried in her hands. She did not even glance at the contents of her trunk, which were now overflowing the room. Suddenly she was conscious of another pause in the proceedings, a half-spoken exclamation from the detective. She looked up. From within the folds of an evening gown he had withdrawn a small, official-looking dispatch box of black tin, tied with red tape, and with great seals hanging from either end.