"Look here, Johnny, you tell me that you will not lend a hand in saving Pradel, that you intend, in fact, to go against my orders, which means going back on your word of honour. Now that is a very big thing to do, as I told you once before. I won't qualify it any other way, I'll just say that it is a big thing. Will you then tell me why you think of doing it? What is your excuse? Or explanation? You'll want a cast-iron one, my dear fellow, you know, to make me understand it."

Devinne shrugged.

"Excuse? I might refuse to give you one, for I don't admit your right to question me like this. But I will try and remember that we were friends once, and, as far as I am concerned, we can go on being friends. I have two cast-iron reasons why I refuse to risk my life in order to save Pradel, who is my enemy. He has tried to alienate Cécile's love from me. Thank Heaven, he has not succeeded, but he has tried and will go on trying, once he is out of this country, in safety in England. And you expect me to help him in that? You must think I am a fool. My second reason is that in my opinion we must concentrate on saving Madame la Marquise and Mademoiselle Cécile, François, too, if you insist, but to hamper ourselves with those two old servants, not to mention that damned doctor fellow, is sheer madness to my mind, and I contend that I can make better use of my life than lose it perhaps in the pursuit of such folly."

Blakeney had listened to all this tirade in perfect quietude, never once turning his eyes away from the speaker's face. He couldn't see him very clearly because the shadows of the night were deep and dark, but he had manoeuvred so as to get Devinne within the feeble shaft of light which struck across from the tap-room through the narrow, uncurtained window. Thus he could watch the sneer which curled round the young man's lips and now and then catch the expression of scorn or defiance which distorted his good-looking face. But he made no movement to punish with a blow the insults which this young miscreant dared to fling at his chief. He had himself well in hand; only those who loved him would have been aware of the stiffening of his massive figure and seen the slender hands tightly clenched.

Now that Devinne had paused for lack of breath and still panting with excitement, Blakeney gave him answer, with utmost calm, never once raising his voice.

"I thank you, my good fellow, for this explanation. I am beginning to understand now. As to your last remark, that is as may be. A man must judge for himself what his own life is worth, and to what use he can put it. It is impossible for any members of the League to arrange for you to return to England for at least another day or two. I am taking it that you would prefer to travel alone rather than in the company of those whom we are going to do our utmost to save from death. If I can possibly arrange it, I will get in touch with Everingham and Aincourt, who know nothing of your treachery-"

"Percy!" the other cried in angry protest.

"Who know nothing of your treachery," Blakeney reiterated with deliberate emphasis. "If they did," he added, with a short laugh, "they would possibly wring your neck."

"You needn't worry about me," Devinne retorted sullenly. "I can look after myself."

"Then do, my good fellow. It is the best thing you can do. Good night."

He went up to the door, but paused there, his hand on the latch, his eyes turned once more to the comrade who had turned renegade. It almost seemed as if he still entertained the hope that a sudden revulsion of feeling would bring the son of his old friend back to his side, back to the path of honour and loyalty which he had sworn to follow, back to that life of self-sacrifice and love of humanity which they had all pledged themselves to pursue. Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., that beau ideal of every dandy in London, looked strangely incongruous, almost weird, standing there by the cabaret door, in rags and tatters, with grimy unshaven face, a dirty Phrygian cap over his unkempt hair, his slender hand, which duchesses liked to fondle, covered with soot and dust. Yet also strangely commanding, the living presentation of a brave man brought face to face with some hideous monster, a ghoul in the very existence of which he had never believed up till now and whose very presence was a pollution.

Did some feeling akin to shame assail St. John Devinne then? It is impossible to say. Certain it is that without another word or backward glance he started to walk away down the hill. And Blakeney with a bitter sigh went to rejoin his comrades in the tap-room. They asked him no questions, for they guessed, if only vaguely, what had happened, and that after this they would have to face that most deadly of all dangers a traitor in the camp.

"If we have a traitor in the camp," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had once said, "then God help the lot of us."

27 TREACHERY

It is a little difficult to analyse the feelings of a man like St. John Devinne, for he was not really by nature an out and out blackguard. Vanity more than anything else was at the root of his present dishonourable actions. He imagined himself more deeply in love with Cécile de la Rodière than he had ever been before and more deeply than he actually was. Love, in a man of Devinne's type does not really mean much, except the satisfaction of vanity, and, looking back on the pages of history in every civilized land, one cannot help but admit that vanity in men and women has caused more mischief, more misery and greater disasters than any other frailty to which humanity is heir.

And so it was with this man who now was striding rapidly along the snow-covered road which leads down to Choisy. He was not aware of the time, nor of the cold, nor of the roughness of the road. At every dozen steps or so he stumbled over the slippery ground. Once or twice he measured his length in the ditch, but he didn't care. He had set a purpose in his mind, the best part of the night in which to carry it through and nothing else mattered. Nothing. At the cost of dishonour he had made up his mind that he would not lend a hand in any adventure that had for its object the rescue of Simon Pradel from the fate which apparently was waiting for him. Well, if it did, that was his look out, his own fault, too, for daring to court intimacy with his superiors and incurring thereby the enmity of this proletarian government. There was just one thing to be put down to the credit of this young traitor, and that is that mixed with his desire to leave Pradel to his fate, there was also the conviction that the only to ensure Cécile's safety was by concentrating on her and perhaps her mother, and leaving every other issue to take care of itself.

He had formed a plan, of course, and all the way between the heights of La Rodière and the outskirts of Choisy, running when he could, stumbling often, falling more than once, he elaborated this plan. He covered the ground quickly enough, for the way was downhill all the time and it was no longer very dark, now that a pale moon shed its cold silvery light on the carpet of snow. Somewhere in the far distance a church clock struck the half-hour. Half-past eight it must be, reckoned Devinne, and the Levets would have finished supper. There was their house just in sight. Now for a lucky chance to find the girl alone, the girl who in an access of jealousy as great as his own had cried out: "You only care because you are in love with Cécile!" He paused a moment outside the grill in order to shake the snow and dirt off his clothes, to straighten his hat and adjust his cravat. Then he walked up to the front door and rang the bell. It was old man Levet who opened the door. Devinne raised his hat and said: