# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 8

pp. 860–866

### CHAPTER VIII
#### Presto, Change!

The vision of that dark hair rippling down as she drew out pin after pin held Stewart entranced. But what was it she purposed to do? Surely—
“If you are going to wash, you'd better do it, Tommy,” she said calmly. “I will be wanting to in a minute.”
Mechanically Stewart slipped out of his coat, took off his collar, pulled up his sleeves, and fell to. Again he was obsessed by a feeling of unreality. It couldn't be true—all this—
“I wish you'd hurry, Tommy,” said a voice behind him. “I'm waiting for you to unhook my bodice.”
Stewart started round as if stung by an adder. His companion's hair fell in beautiful dark waves about her shoulders, and be could see that her bodice was loosened.
“There are two hooks I can't reach,” she said in the most matter-of-fact tone. “I should think you would know that by this time!”
“Oh, so it's that bodice!” said Stewart. He dried his hands vigorously, resolved to play the game to the end, whatever it might be. “All right!”
She turned her back toward him, and he began gingerly searching for the hooks.
“Come a little this way,” she said; “you can see better.”
Glancing up, Stewart suddenly understood. They were standing in such a position that their shadows fell upon the curtain. The comedy was being played for the benefit of the guard in the street outside.
The discovery that it was a comedy gave back to Stewart all his aplomb, and he found the hooks and disengaged them with a celerity which no real husband could have improved upon.
“There!” he said. “Though why any woman should wear a gown so fashioned that she can neither dress nor undress herself passes my comprehension. Why not put the hooks in front?”
“And spoil the effect? Impossible! The hooks must be in the back.”
Still standing before the window, she slowly drew her bodice off.
Stewart had seen the arms of many women, but, he told himself, never a pair so rounded and graceful as those at this moment disclosed to him. Admirable, too, was the way in which the head was set upon the lovely neck, and the way the neck itself merged into the shoulders—the masterpiece of a great artist, so he told himself.
“I wonder if there is a shutter to that window!” she said suddenly, and turned toward it. “If there is, you had better close it. Somebody might pass. Besides, I don't like to sleep on the ground floor of a strange house in a strange town, with an open window.”
“I'll see,” said Stewart. Pulling back the curtain, he stuck out his head. “Yes, there's a shutter—a heavy wooden one”; and he pulled it shut and pushed its bolt into place. “There; now you're safe!”
She motioned him quickly to lower the window, and this he did as noiselessly as possible.
“Was there any one outside?” she asked in a low tone.
He shook his head. The narrow street upon which the window opened had seemed quite deserted, but the shadows were very deep.
“I wish you'd open the bags, Tommy,” she said in her natural voice. “I suppose I shall have to improvise a night-dress of some sort.”
Although he knew quite well that the words had been uttered for foreign consumption, as it were, Stewart found that his fingers were trembling as he undid the straps and threw back the lids, for he was quite unable to guess what would be the end of this strange adventure, or to what desperate steps the pressure of circumstances might lead.
“There you are,” he said, and sat down and watched her.
She knelt on the floor before the bags and turned over their contents thoughtfully, laying to one side a soft outing-shirt, a traveling-cap, a lounging-coat, a pipe and pouch of tobacco, a handful of cigars, a pair of trousers, three handkerchiefs, a pair of scissors. She paused for a long time over a pair of Stewart's shoes, but finally put them back with a shake of the head.
“No,” said Stewart, “I agree with you. Shoes are not necessary to a sleeping costume; no more is a pipe, either.”
She laughed.
“You will find that the pipe is very necessary,” she said.
Rising briskly, she stepped to the washstand and gave face and hands and arms a scrubbing so vigorous that she emerged, as it seemed to Stewart, more radiant than ever. Then she glanced into the pitcher with an exclamation of dismay.
“There! I have used all the water! I wonder if our landlady is up!”
Catching up the pitcher, she crossed rapidly to the door and opened it. There was no one there, and Stewart, following with the candle, saw that the hall was empty. They stood for a moment listening, but not a sound disturbed the stillness of the house.
The girl motioned him back into the room and closed the door softly. Then, replacing the pitcher gently, she took up a pile of Stewart's socks and stuffed them tightly under the door. Finally she set a chair snugly against it—for there was no lock—and turned to Stewart with a little sigh of relief.
“There,” she said in a low tone; “nobody can see our light or overhear us, if we are careful. Perhaps they do not really suspect us, but we must take no chances. What is the time?”
Stewart glanced at his watch.
“It is almost midnight.”
“There is no time to lose. We must make our plans. Sit here beside me.” She sat down in one corner against the wall. “We mustn't waste our candle,” she added. “Bring it with you, and we will blow it out until we need it again.”
Stewart sat down beside her. Placing the candle on the floor, he leaned forward and blew it out.
For a moment they sat so, quite still, then Stewart felt a hand touch his. He seized it and held it close.
“I am very unhappy, my friend,” she said softly, “to have involved you in all this.”
“Why, I am having the time of my life!” Stewart protested.
“If I had foreseen what was to happen,” she went on, “I should never have asked you to assist me. I would have found some other way.”
“Then I'm glad you didn't foresee it. Why—why, I was never so happy in my life!”
“It is good of you to say so, but you must not involve yourself further.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I am in great danger. It is absolutely necessary that I should escape from this place. I cannot remain here till morning. I cannot face that inspection. I should be denounced.”
“Yes,” agreed Stewart; “that's clear enough.”
“Well, I will escape alone. When the police come for us they will find only you.”
“And will probably back me against a wall and shoot me out of hand!”
“Oh, no; they will be rough and angry, but they will not dare to harm you. They know that you are an American—they cannot possibly suspect you of being a spy. You can prove the truth of all your statements.”
“Not quite all,” Stewart corrected.
“Of your statements, at least, so far as they concern yourself.”
“Yes, but I expect I should have no small difficulty in explaining my connection with you.”
“Oh, no,” said the girl in a low voice; “that can be easily explained.”
“How?”
“You will say,” she answered, her voice lower still, “that you met me at the Kölner Hof, that I made advances, that you thought me rather attractive, and that I had agreed to accompany you for a week or two. You can say that it was I who suggested altering your passport, that you saw no harm in it, and that you knew absolutely nothing about me except that I—I was a—a loose woman.”
Stewart's lips were trembling so that it was a moment before he could control his voice.
“And do you really think I would say that, little comrade?” he asked hoarsely. “Do you really think anything on earth could compel me to say that?”
He heard the quick intake of her breath. She raised his hand to her cheek and he felt the hot tears upon it.
“Don't you understand,” he went on earnestly, “that we are in this together to the end—the very end? I know I'm not of much use; but I am not such a coward as you seem to think me, and—”
She stopped him with a quick pressure of the fingers.
“Don't!” she breathed. “You are cruel!”
“Not half so cruel as you were a moment ago,” he retorted.
“Forgive me, my friend,” she pleaded, and moved a little nearer. “I did not know—I am but a girl—I thought perhaps you would wish to be rid of me.”
“I don't want ever to be rid of you,” began Stewart brokenly, drawing her closer. “I don't want ever—”
She yielded for an instant to his arm; for the fraction of an instant her head was upon his breast; then she drew herself away and silenced him with a tap upon the lips.
“Not now!” she said, and her voice, too, was hoarse. “All we must think of now is to escape. Afterward, perhaps—”
“I shall hold you to that!” said Stewart, and released her.
But again for an instant she bent close.
“You are a good man,” she whispered.
“Oh, no!” Stewart protested, though he was shaken by the words. “Just an ordinary fellow.”
And then he suddenly found himself unable to go on. There was a moment's silence. When he spoke again he had regained his self-control.
“Have you a plan?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and drew a quick breath, as of one shaking away some weakness. “The first part is that you should sit quite still until I tell you to light the candle.”
“But what—”
“A good soldier does not ask questions.”
“All right, general!” said Stewart.
He settled back against the wall, completely, ineffably happy. Never before, he told himself, had he known what happiness was; never before had the mere joy of living run through his veins as it was doing now. Little comrade! But what was she doing?
He could hear her moving softly about the room; he could hear the rustle of what he took to be the bedclothes; then the bed creaked as she sat down upon it.
What was she doing? Why should she work in the dark, alone, without asking him to help? Was it because he could not help—was of so little use—
“You may light the candle now, my friend,” she said in a low voice.
Stewart had a match ready—had had it ready for long minutes!—and in a trice the wick was alight and the flame shot up clear and steady.
After one glance he sprang to his feet in amazement, for there before him stood a youth—the handsomest he had ever seen—Peter Pan come to earth again—his hand at the vizor of his traveling-cap in mock salute.
“Well!” said Stewart, after a moment of amazed and delighted silence. “I believe you are a witch. Let me look at you!”
The face upturned to his flamed crimson at the wonder and admiration in his eyes, but the dimple was sparkling at the corner of her mouth as she turned obediently before him and stepped slowly across the room. There is at the heart of every woman, however virginal and innocent, a subtle delight in knowing that men find her beautiful, and there could be no question of what Stewart thought at this moment.
At last she came to a stop facing him.
“Well?” she asked. “Shall I do?”
“Will you do?” Stewart echoed, and Meredith's phrase recurred to him—“a nymph in porcelain”—how perfectly it described her! “You are entirely, absolutely, impeccably—oh, I haven't adjectives enough!”
“But the clothes,” she said, and looked doubtfully down at them. “Do I look like a boy?”
“Not in the least!” he answered promptly.
Her face fell.
“But then—”
“Perhaps it is just because I know you're not one,” he reassured her. “Let me see if I can improve matters. The trousers are too large, especially about the waist. They seem in danger of—h-m!” She was clutching them desperately with one hand. “We'll make another hole in that belt about three inches back.” He got out his knife and suited the action to the word. “There—that's better—you can let go of them now. And we'll turn up the legs about four inches—no, we'd better cut them off.” He set the candle on the floor, picked up the scissors, and carefully trimmed each leg. “But those feet are ridiculous,” he added with mock severity. “No real boy ever had feet like that!”
For a moment she stared down at them hopelessly.
“They will seem larger when I get them covered with mud,” she pointed out. “I thought of putting on a pair of your shoes, but gave it up, for I am afraid I could not travel very far in them. Luckily, these are very strong.”
He smiled skeptically, but had to agree with her that his shoes were impossible.
“There is one other thing.” She lifted her cap and let her tucked-up hair fall about her shoulders. “This must be cut off.”
“Oh, no!” protested Stewart, drawing back in horror. “That would be desecration—why, it's the most beautiful hair in the world!”
“Nonsense! In any event, it will grow again.”
“Why not just tie it up under your cap?”
But she shook her head.
“No, it must come off. I might lose the cap—you see, it is too large—and my hair would betray us. Cut it off, my friend—be quick!”
She was right, of course. With a heavy heart Stewart snipped away the long tresses, and then trimmed the hair as well as he was able—which was very badly indeed. Finally he parted it rakishly on one side—and only by a supreme effort restrained himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her.
“Really,” he said, “you're so ridiculously lovely that I'm in great danger of violating our treaty. I warn you it's extremely dangerous to look at me like that!”
She lowered her eyes instantly, but she could not restrain the dimple. Fortunately, in the shadow, Stewart could not see it.
“We must make my clothing into a bundle,” she said sedately. “I may need it again. Besides, these people must not suspect that I have gone away disguised like this. That will give us a great advantage. Yes, gather up the hair, and we will take it, too—it would betray us. Put the cigars in your pocket. I will take the pipe and tobacco.”
“Do you expect to smoke? I warn you that that pipe is a seasoned one.”
“I may risk a puff or two. I have been told there is no passport like a pipe of tobacco. No, don't shut the bags. Leave them open as if we had fled hurriedly. And,” she added, crimsoning a little, “I think it would be well to disarrange the bed.”
Stewart flung back the covers and rolled upon it, while his companion cast a last look about the room. Then she picked up her little bag and took out the two letters.
“Which pocket of a man's clothes is safest?” she asked.
“The inside coat-pocket. There are two inside pockets in the coat you have on. One of them has a flap which buttons down. Nothing could get out of it.”
She started to place the letters in the pocket, but hesitated, looking at him searchingly. She came close to him and spoke in the merest breath.
“My friend,” she said, “I am going to trust you with a great secret. The information I carry is in these letters, apparently so innocent. If anything should happen to me—”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” broke in Stewart roughly. “That is what I am for!”
“I know—and yet something may. If anything should, promise me that you will take these letters from my pocket and by every means in your power seek to place them in the hands of General Joffre.”
“General Joffre?” repeated Stewart. “Who is he?”
“He is the French commander-in-chief.”
“But what chance would I have of reaching him? I should merely be laughed at if I asked to see him.”
“Not if you asked in the right way.” Again she hesitated. Then she pressed still closer. “Listen. I have no right to tell you what I am about to tell you, and yet I must. Do you remember, at Aix, I looked at you like this?”
She caught her lower lip for an instant between the thumb and little finger of her left hand.
“Yes, I remember; and you burst into tears immediately afterward.”
“That was because you did not understand. If, in answer, you had passed your left hand across your eyes, I should have said, in French, 'Have we not met before?' If you had replied, 'In Berlin, on the 22nd,' I should have known that you were one of ours. Those passwords will take you to General Joffre himself.'
“Let us repeat them,” Stewart suggested. In a moment he knew them thoroughly. “That's right!” he said.
“You consent, then?” she asked eagerly.
“To assist you in every way possible—yes.”
“To leave me, if I am not able to go on; to take the letters and press on alone,” she insisted, her eyes shining. “Promise me, my friend!”
“I shall have to be governed by circumstances,” said Stewart cautiously. “If that seems the best thing to do, why, I'll do it, of course. But I warn you that this enterprise would soon go to pieces if it had no better wits than mine behind it. Why, in the few minutes they were searching you back there at the station I nearly walked straight into a trap—and with my eyes wide open, too—at the very moment when I was proudly thinking what a clever fellow I was!”
“What was the trap?” she asked quickly.
“I was talking to that officer, and babbled out the story of how I came to go to the Kölner Hof. He seemed surprised that a member of the police should have recommended it—which seems strange to me, too,” he added, “now that I think of it. Then he asked me suddenly how you knew I was there.”
“Yes, yes; and what did you say?”
“I didn't say anything for a minute—I felt as if I was falling out of an air-ship. But after I had fallen about a mile I managed to say that I had sent you a telegram and also a post-card.”
“How lucky!” breathed the girl. “How clever of you!”
“Clever? Was it? But that shock was nothing to the jolt I got the next minute, when he told me that you had brought the post-card along in your bag! It was a good thing you came in just then, or he would have seen by the way I stared at him that the whole story was a lie.”
“I should have told you of the post-card,” she said, with a gesture of annoyance. “It is often just some such tiny oversight that wrecks a whole plan. One tries to foresee everything—to provide for everything—and then some little, little detail goes wrong, and the whole structure comes tumbling down. It was chance that saved us; and in affairs of this sort, nothing must be left to chance. If we had failed, it would have been my fault.”
“But how could there have been a post-card?” demanded Stewart. “I should like to see it.”
Smiling, yet with a certain look of anxiety, she stepped to her bag, took out the post-card, and handed it to him. On one side was a picture of the cathedral at Cologne; on the other, the address and the message:
My dear Mary:
Do not forget that it is to-morrow, Saturday, you are to meet me at Aix-la-Chapelle, from where we will go on to Brussels together, as we have planned. If I should miss you at the train, you will find me at a hotel called the Kölner Hof, not far from the station. But I shall try to meet you, for I can scarcely wait to see you again.
Lovingly,
Bradford Stewart.
Stewart read this remarkable message, and stood staring at it as though unable to believe his eyes.
“But it is in my handwriting!” he protested. “At least, a fairly good imitation of it—and the signature is mine to a dot!”
“The signature was all we had to go by,” she explained. “Your handwriting had to be inferred from that.”
“But where did you get my signature? Oh, from that blank I filled up at Aix, I suppose.”
“No,” she said: “you gave the signature to the man who examined your passport on the terrace of the Hotel Continental at Cologne, and who recommended you to the Kölner Hof. He also was one of ours.”
Stewart was looking at her steadily.
“Then in that case,” he said, and his face was very stern, “it was I, and no one else, whom you expected to meet at the Kölner Hof!”
“Yes,” she answered, her face convulsed, but meeting his gaze unwaveringly.
“And all that followed—the tears, the dismay—was make-believe?”
“Yes. I cannot lie to you, my friend.”
Stewart passed an unsteady hand before his eyes. It seemed that something had suddenly burst within him—some dream, some vision.
“So I was deliberately used!” he began hoarsely; but she stopped him, her hand upon his arm.
“Do not speak in that tone,” she pleaded, her face wrung with anguish. “Do not look at me like that. I did not know—I had never seen you—it was not my plan. We were face to face with failure—we were desperate—there seemed no other way.” She stopped, shuddering slightly, and drew away from him. “At least you will say good-by,” she said softly.
Dazedly Stewart looked at her—at her eyes dark with sadness, at her face suddenly so white. She was standing near the window, her hand upon the blind.
“Good-by, my friend,” she repeated. “You have been very good to me!”
For an instant longer he stood staring. Then he sprang to her and seized her.
“Do you mean that you are going to leave me?” he demanded almost roughly.
“Surely that it what you wish?”
“No! No! What do I care—what does it matter?” The words were pouring incoherently from his trembling lips. “I understand—you were desperate—you didn't know me; even if you had, it would have made no difference. Oh, I am a fool!”
She shivered a little; then she drew away, looking at him.
“You mean,” she stammered; “you mean that you still—that you still—”
“Little comrade!” he said, and held out his arms.
She lifted her eyes to his—wavered toward him—
“Halt!” cried a voice just outside the window.
An instant later there came a heavy knock on the door of the house.