It was 2 p.m. on the
afternoon of May 7, 1915. The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in
succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with
all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their
turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched
their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart
from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. She did not seem
afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead.
"I beg your pardon."
A man's voice beside her made her start and turn. She had noticed the speaker
more than once amongst the first-class passengers. There had been a hint of
mystery about him which had appealed to her imagination. He spoke to no one. If
anyone spoke to him he was quick to rebuff the overture. Also he had a nervous
way of looking over his shoulder with a swift, suspicious glance.
She noticed now that he was greatly agitated. There were beads of perspiration
on his brow. He was evidently in a state of overmastering fear. And yet he did
not strike her as the kind of man who would be afraid to meet death!
"Yes?" Her grave eyes met his inquiringly.
He stood looking at her with a kind of desperate irresolution.
"It must be!" he muttered to himself. "Yes--it is the only
way." Then aloud he said abruptly: "You are an American?"
"Yes."
"A patriotic one?"
The girl flushed.
"I guess you've no right to ask such a thing! Of course I am!"
"Don't be offended. You wouldn't be if you knew how much there was at
stake. But I've got to trust some one--and it must be a woman."
"Why?"
"Because of 'women and children first.' " He looked round and lowered
his voice. "I'm carrying papers--vitally important papers. They may make
all the difference to the Allies in the war. You understand? These papers have
got to be saved! They've more chance with you than with me. Will you take
them?"
The girl held out her hand.
"Wait--I must warn you. There may be a risk--if I've been followed. I
don't think I have, but one never knows. If so, there will be danger. Have you
the nerve to go through with it?"
The girl smiled.
"I'll go through with it all right. And I'm real proud to be chosen! What
am I to do with them afterwards?"
"Watch the newspapers! I'll advertise in the personal column of the Times,
beginning 'Shipmate.' At the end of three days if there's nothing--well, you'll
know I'm down and out. Then take the packet to the American Embassy, and
deliver it into the Ambassador's own hands. Is that clear?"
"Quite clear."
"Then be ready--I'm going to say good-bye." He took her hand in his.
"Good-bye. Good luck to you," he said in a louder tone.
Her hand closed on the oilskin packet that had lain in his palm.
The Lusitania settled with a more decided list to starboard. In answer to a
quick command, the girl went forward to take her place in the boat.
Chapter 1
The Young Adventurers, Ltd.
"Tommy, old thing!"
"Tuppence, old bean!"
The two young people greeted each other affectionately, and momentarily blocked
the Dover Street Tube exit in doing so. The adjective "old" was
misleading. Their united ages would certainly not have totalled forty-five.
"Not seen you for simply centuries," continued the young man.
"Where are you off to? Come and chew a bun with me. We're getting a bit
unpopular here--blocking the gangway as it were. Let's get out of it."
The girl assenting, they started walking down Dover Street towards Piccadilly.
"Now then," said Tommy, "where shall we go?"
The very faint anxiety which underlay his tone did not escape the astute ears
of Miss Prudence Cowley, known to her intimate friends for some mysterious
reason as "Tuppence." She pounced at once.
"Tommy, you're stony!"
"Not a bit of it," declared Tommy unconvincingly. "Rolling in
cash."
"You always were a shocking liar," said Tuppence severely,
"though you did once persuade Sister Greenbank that the doctor had ordered
you beer as a tonic, but forgotten to write it on the chart. Do you
remember?"
Tommy chuckled.
"I should think I did! Wasn't the old cat in a rage when she found out?
Not that she was a bad sort really, old Mother Greenbank! Good old
hospital--demobbed like everything else, I suppose?"
Tuppence sighed.
"Yes. You too?"
Tommy nodded.
"Two months ago."
"Gratuity?" hinted Tuppence.
"Spent."
"Oh, Tommy!"
"No, old thing, not in riotous dissipation. No such luck! The cost of
living--ordinary plain, or garden living nowadays is, I assure you, if you do
not know----"
"My dear child," interrupted Tuppence, "there is nothing I do
not know about the cost of living. Here we are at Lyons', and we will each of
us pay for our own. That's it!" And Tuppence led the way upstairs.
The place was full, and they wandered about looking for a table, catching odds
and ends of conversation as they did so.
"And--do you know, she sat down and cried when I told her she couldn't
have the flat after all." "It was simply a bargain, my dear! Just
like the one Mabel Lewis brought from Paris----"
"Funny scraps one does overhear," murmured Tommy. "I passed two
Johnnies in the street to-day talking about some one called Jane Finn. Did you
ever hear such a name?"
But at that moment two elderly ladies rose and collected parcels, and Tuppence
deftly ensconced herself in one of the vacant seats.
Tommy ordered tea and buns. Tuppence ordered tea and buttered toast.
"And mind the tea comes in separate teapots," she added severely.
Tommy sat down opposite her. His bared head revealed a shock of exquisitely
slicked-back red hair. His face was pleasantly ugly--nondescript, yet
unmistakably the face of a gentleman and a sportsman. His brown suit was well
cut, but perilously near the end of its tether.
They were an essentially modern-looking couple as they sat there. Tuppence had
no claim to beauty, but there was character and charm in the elfin lines of her
little face, with its determined chin and large, wide-apart grey eyes that
looked mistily out from under straight, black brows. She wore a small bright
green toque over her black bobbed hair, and her extremely short and rather
shabby skirt revealed a pair of uncommonly dainty ankles. Her appearance
presented a valiant attempt at smartness.
The tea came at last, and Tuppence, rousing herself from a fit of meditation,
poured it out.
"Now then," said Tommy, taking a large bite of bun, "let's get
up-to-date. Remember, I haven't seen you since that time in hospital in
1916."
"Very well." Tuppence helped herself liberally to buttered toast.
"Abridged biography of Miss Prudence Cowley, fifth daughter of Archdeacon
Cowley of Little Missendell, Suffolk. Miss Cowley left the delights (and
drudgeries) of her home life early in the war and came up to London, where she
entered an officers' hospital. First month: Washed up six hundred and
forty-eight plates every day. Second month: Promoted to drying aforesaid
plates. Third month: Promoted to peeling potatoes. Fourth month: Promoted to
cutting bread and butter. Fifth month: Promoted one floor up to duties of
wardmaid with mop and pail. Sixth month: Promoted to waiting at table. Seventh
month: Pleasing appearance and nice manners so striking that am promoted to
waiting on the Sisters! Eighth month: Slight check in career. Sister Bond ate
Sister Westhaven's egg! Grand row! Wardmaid clearly to blame! Inattention in
such important matters cannot be too highly censured. Mop and pail again! How
are the mighty fallen! Ninth month: Promoted to sweeping out wards, where I
found a friend of my childhood in Lieutenant Thomas Beresford (bow, Tommy!),
whom I had not seen for five long years. The meeting was affecting! Tenth
month: Reproved by matron for visiting the pictures in company with one of the
patients, namely: the aforementioned Lieutenant Thomas Beresford. Eleventh and
twelfth months: Parlourmaid duties resumed with entire success. At the end of
the year left hospital in a blaze of glory. After that, the talented Miss
Cowley drove successively a trade delivery van, a motor-lorry and a
general!" The last was the pleasantest. He was quite a young
general!"
"What brighter was that?" inquired Tommy. "Perfectly sickening
the way those brass hats drove from the War Office to the Savoy, and from the
Savoy to the War Office!"
"I've forgotten his name now," confessed Tuppence. "To resume,
that was in a way the apex of my career. I next entered a Government office. We
had several very enjoyable tea parties. I had intended to become a land girl, a
postwoman, and a bus conductress by way of rounding off my career--but the
Armistice intervened! I clung to the office with the true limpet touch for many
long months, but, alas, I was combed out at last. Since then I've been looking
for a job. Now then--your turn."
"There's not so much promotion in mine," said Tommy regretfully,
"and a great deal less variety. I went out to France again, as you know.
Then they sent me to Mesopotamia, and I got wounded for the second time, and
went into hospital out there. Then I got stuck in Egypt till the Armistice
happened, kicked my heels there some time longer, and, as I told you, finally
got demobbed. And, for ten long, weary months I've been job hunting! There
aren't any jobs! And, if there were, they wouldn't give 'em to me. What good am
I? What do I know about business? Nothing."
Tuppence nodded gloomily.
"What about the colonies?" she suggested.
Tommy shook his head.
"I shouldn't like the colonies--and I'm perfectly certain they wouldn't
like me!"
"Rich relations?"
Again Tommy shook his head.
"Oh, Tommy, not even a great-aunt?"
"I've got an old uncle who's more or less rolling, but he's no good."
"Why not?"
"Wanted to adopt me once. I refused."
"I think I remember hearing about it," said Tuppence slowly.
"You refused because of your mother----"
Tommy flushed.
"Yes, it would have been a bit rough on the mater. As you know, I was all
she had. Old boy hated her--wanted to get me away from her. Just a bit of
spite."
"Your mother's dead, isn't she?" said Tuppence gently.
Tommy nodded.
Tuppence's large grey eyes looked misty.
"You're a good sort, Tommy. I always knew it."
"Rot!" said Tommy hastily. "Well, that's my position. I'm just
about desperate."
"So am I! I've hung out as long as I could. I've touted round. I've
answered advertisements. I've tried every mortal blessed thing. I've screwed
and saved and pinched! But it's no good. I shall have to go home!"
"Don't you want to?"
"Of course I don't want to! What's the good of being sentimental? Father's
a dear--I'm awfully fond of him--but you've no idea how I worry him! He has
that delightful early Victorian view that short skirts and smoking are immoral.
You can imagine what a thorn in the flesh I am to him! He just heaved a sigh of
relief when the war took me off. You see, there are seven of us at home. It's
awful! All housework and mothers' meetings! I have always been the changeling.
I don't want to go back, but--oh, Tommy, what else is there to do?"
Tommy shook his head sadly. There was a silence, and then Tuppence burst out:
"Money, money, money! I think about money morning, noon and night! I dare
say it's mercenary of me, but there it is!"
"Same here," agreed Tommy with feeling.
"I've thought over every imaginable way of getting it too," continued
Tuppence. "There are only three! To be left it, to marry it, or to make it.
First is ruled out. I haven't got any rich elderly relatives. Any relatives I
have are in homes for decayed gentlewomen! I always help old ladies over
crossings, and pick up parcels for old gentlemen, in case they should turn out
to be eccentric millionaires. But not one of them has ever asked me my
name--and quite a lot never said 'Thank you.' "
There was a pause.
"Of course," resumed Tuppence, "marriage is my best chance. I
made up my mind to marry money when I was quite young. Any thinking girl would!
I'm not sentimental, you know." She paused. "Come now, you can't say
I'm sentimental," she added sharply.
"Certainly not," agreed Tommy hastily. "No one would ever think
of sentiment in connection with you."
"That's not very polite," replied Tuppence. "But I dare say you
mean it all right. Well, there it is! I'm ready and willing--but I never meet
any rich men! All the boys I know are about as hard up as I am."
"What about the general?" inquired Tommy.
"I fancy he keeps a bicycle shop in time of peace," explained
Tuppence. "No, there it is! Now you could marry a rich girl."
"I'm like you. I don't know any."
"That doesn't matter. You can always get to know one. Now, if I see a man
in a fur coat come out of the Ritz I can't rush up to him and say: 'Look here,
you're rich. I'd like to know you.' "
"Do you suggest that I should do that to a similarly garbed female?"
"Don't be silly. You tread on her foot, or pick up her handkerchief, or
something like that. If she thinks you want to know her she's flattered, and
will manage it for you somehow."
"You overrate my manly charms," murmured Tommy.
"On the other hand," proceeded Tuppence, "my millionaire would
probably run for his life! No--marriage is fraught with difficulties.
Remains--to make money!"
"We've tried that, and failed," Tommy reminded her.
"We've tried all the orthodox ways, yes. But suppose we try the
unorthodox. Tommy, let's be adventurers!"
"Certainly," replied Tommy cheerfully. "How do we begin?"
"That's the difficulty. If we could make ourselves known, people might
hire us to commit crimes for them."
"Delightful," commented Tommy. "Especially coming from a
clergyman's daughter!"
"The moral guilt," Tuppence pointed out, "would be theirs--not
mine. You must admit that there's a difference between stealing a diamond
necklace for yourself and being hired to steal it."
"There wouldn't be the least difference if you were caught!"
"Perhaps not. But I shouldn't be caught. I'm so clever."
"Modesty always was your besetting sin," remarked Tommy.
"Don't rag. Look here, Tommy, shall we really? Shall we form a business
partnership?"
"Form a company for the stealing of diamond necklaces?"
"That was only an illustration. Let's have a--what do you call it in
book-keeping?"
"Don't know. Never did any."
"I have--but I always got mixed up, and used to put credit entries on the
debit side, and vice versa--so they fired me out. Oh, I know--a joint venture!
It struck me as such a romantic phrase to come across in the middle of musty
old figures. It's got an Elizabethan flavour about it--makes one think of
galleons and doubloons. A joint venture!"
"Trading under the name of the Young Adventurers, Ltd.? Is that your idea,
Tuppence?"
"It's all very well to laugh, but I feel there might be something in
it."
"How do you propose to get in touch with your would-be employers?"
"Advertisement," replied Tuppence promptly. "Have you got a bit
of paper and a pencil? Men usually seem to have. Just like we have hairpins and
powder-puffs."
Tommy handed over a rather shabby green notebook, and Tuppence began writing
busily.
"Shall we begin: 'Young officer, twice wounded in the war--' "
"Certainly not."
"Oh, very well, my dear boy. But I can assure you that that sort of thing
might touch the heart of an elderly spinster, and she might adopt you, and then
there would be no need for you to be a young adventurer at all."
"I don't want to be adopted."
"I forgot you had a prejudice against it. I was only ragging you! The
papers are full up to the brim with that type of thing. Now listen--how's this?
'Two young adventurers for hire. Willing to do anything, go anywhere. Pay must
be good.' (We might as well make that clear from the start.) Then we might add:
'No reasonable offer refused'--like flats and furniture."
"I should think any offer we get in answer to that would be a pretty
unreasonable one!"
"Tommy! You're a genius! That's ever so much more chic. 'No unreasonable
offer refused--if pay is good.' How's that?"
"I shouldn't mention pay again. It looks rather eager."
"It couldn't look as eager as I feel! But perhaps you are right. Now I'll
read it straight through. 'Two young adventurers for hire. Willing to do
anything, go anywhere. Pay must be good. No unreasonable offer refused.' How
would that strike you if you read it?"
"It would strike me as either being a hoax, or else written by a
lunatic."
"It's not half so insane as a thing I read this morning beginning
'Petunia' and signed 'Best Boy.' " She tore out the leaf and handed it to
Tommy. "There you are. Times, I think. Reply to Box so-and-so. I expect it
will be about five shillings. Here's half a crown for my share."
Tommy was holding the paper thoughtfully. His faced burned a deeper red.
"Shall we really try it?" he said at last. "Shall we, Tuppence?
Just for the fun of the thing?"
"Tommy, you're a sport! I knew you would be! Let's drink to success."
She poured some cold dregs of tea into the two cups.
"Here's to our joint venture, and may it prosper!"
"The Young Adventurers, Ltd.!" responded Tommy.
They put down the cups and laughed rather uncertainly. Tuppence rose.
"I must return to my palatial suite at the hostel."
"Perhaps it is time I strolled round to the Ritz," agreed Tommy with
a grin. "Where shall we meet? And when?"
"Twelve o'clock to-morrow. Piccadilly Tube station. Will that suit
you?"
"My time is my own," replied Mr. Beresford magnificently.
"So long, then."
"Good-bye, old thing."
The two young people went off in opposite directions. Tuppence's hostel was
situated in what was charitably called Southern Belgravia. For reasons of
economy she did not take a bus.
She was half-way across St. James's Park, when a man's voice behind her made
her start.
"Excuse me," it said. "But may I speak to you for a
moment?"
