# The Man on Horseback/Chapter 34
### CHAPTER XXXIV
#### BERTHA SPEAKS

Her first words flattened into a low sob, but one that Tom, somehow, was glad to hear:
"I am homesick, Tom. I want to go back to our own country, to America, to Spokane!"
"Why, child," he smiled, "what about …"
"No, no, no! Do not tease me! You must not tease me! I can't stand it, Tom!"
"Of course not. Forgive me, dearest. Sure—you are homesick! You want to smell the scent of the pines. You want to see the open range. And you're going home. On the next ship, see? Straight away! We'll fix that little matter in no time!"
Her reply came very sober, but with a certain tense, dramatic suppression:
"I wish you could. But I am afraid …"
"Afraid that I can't fix it? Shucks, nothing to it!"
She shook her head.
"You don't understand, Tom. Wait. My thoughts are all so frightfully confused. There's so much to tell you, so very, very much. You must be patient with me."
Tom was shocked, less at her words than at the inflection of her voice, the hunted, tragic look in her eyes. Always, as he had known her, she had been high spirited, willful, a little spoiled by both her parents, yet more spoiled by her uncle and the young officers who crowded her uncle's apartment.
But, suddenly, a change seemed to have come over her. She was …
Crushed! Yes. That was the word.
He drew in his breath. Again his hatred against Germany, all things German, surged through his soul like a crimson, murderous wave.
He controlled himself.
"Tell me what has happened," he said, his words coming one by one, staccato, very distinct.
"I will, Tom," and she said that for many weeks past she had wanted to go home.
"But—I don't mean to tease you—but, dear, you told me that …"
"I know. I was stubborn—and foolish—and—I—what do the Chinamen call it? Yes. I wanted to save my face. Before everybody. Before you. Even before myself. I did not want to own up to it that my heart was simply crying for home, simply choking with the desire of it. I guess I must have been homesick ever since Christmas. Perhaps it was the Christmas feeling that started it. You know—back home—at Christmas—mother—father …"
"Sure, child. I know."
She dried her eyes.
"I told uncle. And he said yes. He would get me my ticket. Any time I wanted."
"Well?"
"I asked him time and again. But always he made some excuse. He told me the ship was crowded. Another time that he had forgotten. Again that the Uhlans were giving a dance and that I was specially invited. Then I wrote home to father, and asked him to send me money for the ticket."
"Why didn't you do that in the first place?"
"Uncle and aunt asked me not to. They said that they had invited me to Berlin, that it was up to them to pay my fare back home."
"Well? What happened? What did your father reply?"
"He didn't reply!"
"What?" Tom was utterly amazed; and the girl explained to him that in the Colonel's house all details, large and small, were attended to with absolute military precision. All letters were collected by the Bürsche, who stamped them and took them to the post office. She had written twice a week, asking her father to cable the money. But no answer except some letters that must have crossed hers and that complained because she had not written for weeks.
Then, two weeks ago, she had gone to her uncle's study during his absence to get her grandmother a deck of solitaire cards and, quite by chance, she had looked into the waste-paper basket.
"And I saw there a letter I had written the day before—torn to pieces! Tom! Uncle never mailed any of my letters! I am sure of it!"
"Heavens! What did you do, Bertha? Didn't you kick up a …"
"A row? No."
"Why not?"
"I was taken aback. I was frightened, so frightened. I rushed into grandmother's room and told her. And she made me promise not to say a word to uncle. She told me she couldn't explain to me, that I was an American, that I did not know Germany, the German army, the German system. She said to give her time. She herself would arrange matters."
"Why didn't you come to me—at once?" Tom was hurt.
"But I told you. I was ashamed."
"Sure." He inclined his red head. "Go on, child. What did grandmother do?"
"I guess she must have cabled at once. For this morning she received a letter, and in it was one for me asking me to rely absolutely on you. Father seems to be afraid for me—of something. He doesn't say of what. I suppose he thinks I'm just a silly little goose—and," she sobbed, "he is right. I have been so foolish, so frightfully, frightfully obstinate! He writes that I must be very careful, very silent, very circumspect. He, too, says, just like grandmother, that I would not understand, because I am an American. And, Tom dear," she added with a pathetic little sigh, "I always imagined that I was so thoroughly German!"
Tom could not suppress a smile.
"Little error of judgment," he said. "Happens in the best regulated families. What else did your Dad say?"
"He enclosed another letter in grandmother's—for you. Grandmother believes he must have been afraid to write to you direct."
Tom gave a little exclamation of approval.
"Some little gray matter your father's got! All right. Let's have his letter to me."
Bertha gave it to him, and he read.
"Dear Tom," wrote Martin Wedekind, "you must come back to America as soon as possible together with Bertha. She is safe with you, and with nobody else. She must not go alone. I would come to Germany myself, but I have every reason to believe that that would make matters worse. I doubt, in fact, that the Germans would let me cross the frontier. Tom, it's up to you. You are in the army, but you must get out of it. I rely upon you implicitly. I know that you love Bertha, that, somehow, you will succeed.
"Let me explain to you everything as far as I can.
"Over a year ago, shortly after Newson Garrett assayed the Yankee Doodle Glory ore and discovered the unknown ingredient which at the time made such a stir in the scientific world, I received a letter from my brother Heinrich. He asked me to remember that I am a German by birth, that Germany never forgets her sons, that I owe everything to Germany, my blood, my training, my education. He wound up by begging me to assist Baron von Götz-Wrede, who was coming to the West, if he wished to buy the Yankee Doodle Glory mine. At once I became suspicious. I always am when a German, chiefly an officer or a Government official, asks me to remember that I am a native of Germany. There is always a reason for that bit of clanking sentimentality, and that reason is always fishy. So I decided to be careful, the more so as Newson Garrett told me that he had sent specimens of the ore to a German chemist in New York for further examination, as you had received a cable from Johannes Hirschfeld & Co. in Berlin offering you a tremendously big price for the mine, and as Truex, too, had received a similar cable.
"So, instead of helping the Baron, I put obstacles in his way.
"Then you went to Europe. A day later came the cable from my brother with the news that my mother was very sick and wished to see Bertha before she died. Naturally I let my daughter go. When, later on, I discovered that my mother was well, that the cable had been misspelled in transmission, I thought it strange, but not enough to worry over. Then came the Lehneke affair. You joined the army. Shortly afterwards the affair was settled in your favor. But I did not feel relieved. I was not a bit surprised when Gamble got his walking papers and German engineers took charge of the Yankee Doodle Glory out put. I know how they do things in Germany and had no way of warning you.
"I did not know why the Germans wanted the mine. I do not know now. I only know they do want it—and they have it.
"So I resigned myself to the fact of it until yesterday, the thirtieth of April, Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen, I received my mother's cable asking me to see to it that Bertha returned to America at once. I had not had a line from Bertha for weeks. I can imagine the reason. I repeat, I know Germany.
"I was for going straight over when, just as I was about to arrange about tickets, I received a visit from a German who refused to give his name. But his words were succinct, to the point.
"He told me that a subsidized German steamship line was running from Tacoma to Hamburg, via Hongkong. He told me that the British authorities at the latter place had refused clearance papers to the first steamer. Therefore the German Government wished succeeding steamers to sail under the American flag, since they were sure that the British would not interfere with the Stars and Stripes. He asked me to play dummy, and he offered me two hundred thousand dollars spot cash for the job.
"I refused, flatly. For the man was not a German-American, a plain business man, but the home-grown, home-bred product, short spoken, impudent, rasping. In other words, a German official specially sent for the purpose of seeing me, of offering me money for something that, at first sight, did not seem to pay—them, the Germans. And I always mistrust a German carrying gifts. He is rather like the Greek gift in that respect. So, I repeat, I refused.
"But my visitor smiled. He told me very calmly that I would have to come to terms. I asked why, and he replied, still very calmly, that my daughter would be held a hostage in Germany until I agreed.
"Yes, Tom! A hostage! In this, the Twentieth, the civilized Century!
"Even then I refused. You see, Tom, I love my daughter. But, too, I love America. I owe everything to America. My roots are here, my soul, my heart, my very secret being—and—I do not trust Germany. I don't know what it is. But I just feel that I would do wrong in doing what my unknown visitor asked me to.
"I did not give him all these reasons. I simply showed him to the door. He bowed in the regular, stiff Prussian fashion. He said that it would be quite useless for me to try to go to Germany, to rescue my daughter—for that is what it amounts to—and I know that he is speaking the truth. Thus I rely on you, Tom. It is up to you. You must do it, somehow. You must, Tom! (The words were heavily underlined.)
"I am afraid to address these lines to you. Your mail will be watched from now on. So I am writing to my mother and enclosing this letter, as well as one for Bertha. I don't think Heinrich will interfere with mother's mail. He is nearly as scared of her as he is of his superior officers."
Tom looked up.
"How did you manage to get here?" he asked.
Bertha smiled.
"Oh, it was a regular escapade. You know, heretofore I have never been out alone. I was told by uncle that it was not good form in Berlin. And I believed him. Now I know. He did not want me to be able to communicate with anybody, and so I was always either with him, or with aunt, or with some of the officers. To-day, after the letter came, my dressmaker came to the house, and I"—she smiled through her tears—"I grabbed her coat, rushed out of the room, locked her in, and was out of the house down the back stairs before anybody knew what was happening."
"Bully for you, kid!" applauded Tom. "There's the right American spirit. And now—watch your Uncle Dudley. I'll get you out of Germany all right. Come along. We'll go …" Suddenly he was silent.
"What is the matter, Tom?"
"I—I—" Tom was making a painful effort to choke back his words.
But she remembered the valet's words, how he had told her he could not let her in, that it was against his orders.
"Tom!" she cried. "Tom! Tell me!"
His hands opened and shut spasmodically. Then he told her. He had to. There was no way out of it.
"Bertha," he said, "I am under arrest. I am going to be tried by court-martial …"
"For what?"
"I don't know. Manslaughter, I guess. Perhaps murder. God knows."
"Murder—you …"
"Yes. There was a duel. I shot …"
"Whom? Whom, Tom?"
"Baron von Götz-Wrede. I killed him. No, no!" as he saw that she was about to collapse. "Don't give way, honey! You've been so bully, so brave. Don't give way now. Everything'll be all right. Come with me."
He grabbed his uhlanka and his silver gray cape, and accompanied her out to the corridor. Already his hand was on the door-knob when he heard Krauss voice in back of him.
"Herr Leutnant! I have orders to …"
"Sure. I know. And this time I guess there's no persuading you to be influenced by your decent instincts, your kindly impulses?"
The valet blushed.
"I regret, Herr Leutnant. Somebody may come—perhaps the Colonel himself …"
"And then you'd be in a hell of a pickle. All right. Here's where I turn Prussian—and here's where you give in to the unanswerable Prussian argument!" and he whirled quickly, clenched his fist, and drove it straight to the other's jaw.
The man fell like a tree cut away from the supporting roots.
"Here, Bertha," commanded Tom, "lend a hand."
Bravely the girl helped, and between her and Tom, two minutes later Krauss was in his room, on his cot, securely tied and gagged.
They went down the stairs as if nothing had happened and hailed a taxicab.
"Where to?" asked the driver.
Tom was going to say the American Consulate. But he remembered his former experiences. It would be all right to give the girl to Poole's protection, but there was Martin Wedekind's injunction that she must not travel alone, that it was up to Tom to bring her.
For a moment he was puzzled.
Then, quite suddenly, he thought of Vyvyan, of Vyvyan's warning, of Vyvyan's ring the little simple silver affair with the figure of a grayhound engraved on the round shield and above it the letters—B. E. D.
"To the British Embassy!" he directed the driver. "Just as quick as you can!"