THE TRENCH DAYS: The Collected War Tales of William Le Queux (WW1 Adventure Sagas, Espionage Thrillers & Action Classics). William Le Queux

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      “True. But they are at least scientific in their campaign. The English are not.”

      “Well, Arnaud, if you continue to talk like that I shall begin to agree with Aimée, and accuse you of taking the German side,” laughed her father.

      “Diable! I hate them too much. Look what I have lost — what I stand to further lose — eh?” protested the thin-faced man, with a quick gesture of the hands. “All I hope is that the English army will be in Belgium before the enemy enters Brussels.”

      “But the French,” suggested the Baron. “What are they doing? One hears so very little of General Joffré and his army!”

      “Ah! he, too, is moving slowly. At Verdun, and along the line of Alsace-Lorraine, there has been some fierce fighting, I hear.”

      “How do you know?” asked the girl.

      “By the papers.”

      “But the papers have published no reports,” she said in surprise. “What journal has given the news? We have them all, and I read them very carefully.”

      Again Rigaux was, for a second, nonplussed.

      “Oh! I think it was in the Antwerp Matin — the day before yesterday — if I recollect aright.”

      The truth was that he had heard it over his secret wireless only that morning.

      “Who won?”

      “Unfortunately, the Germans.”

      “Ah!” sighed the girl. “It is always so. When shall we ever have a victory?”

      “Who knows, Mademoiselle? Let us hope it will be very soon. Belgium will never be crushed.”

      “Not so long as a single man remains alive who can carry a gun,” declared the Baron fiercely. “I wish I were younger. I’d go to the front at once and do my share.”

      “As Edmond Valentin has gone,” Aimée remarked, more in order to spite Arnaud Rigaux than anything else.

      In a second the spy’s face was wreathed in smiles.

      “Ah, how is M’sieur Valentin? where is he, Mademoiselle?” he inquired.

      “He is with the Eighth Chasseurs-à-pied, somewhere near Liège.”

      “He is not near Liège now,” their visitor said. “The whole country, up to Louvain, is now held by the enemy. His brigade has, I expect, been thrown back to somewhere near Brussels — unless, of course, it has come south, towards Namur.”

      In an instant the girl was eager and anxious. Namur, with its great forts, believed to be impregnable, was only a few miles away.

      “Would they come across in this direction, do you think?” she asked eagerly.

      “Certainly. If they were in the Meuse Valley they might follow it up towards Huy, and onward.”

      “But there has been no sign of the enemy along there.”

      “There will be soon, I fear, Mademoiselle. We are not sufficiently strong to keep them back.”

      As a matter of fact, he knew that Uhlan patrols were in the woods within fifteen miles of them, and that very soon the whole Meuse Valley would probably run with blood. The Potsdam plan of campaign was to sweep every part of Belgium, from the frontier to the sea, with the fire of war.

      “What shall we do if they come?” asked the pale-faced girl, dismayed. “Is it best to stay here?”

      “I believe so. You are far safer here in your château than in Brussels.”

      “But what will happen to us?”

      “Oh, you may have a visit, perhaps, from a polite German officer who may billet some of his men here for the night. He will simply apologise for the inconvenience he causes. That is all.”

      “But they have been massacring people north of Liège,” Aimée remarked.

      “Bah! those are simply exaggerated tales of the country-people. Do not credit them, Mademoiselle. Nobody in Brussels believes them. In war, such tales are always told,” he said assuringly.

      “Who is commanding the Eighth Chasseurs? Do you know?” asked the girl anxiously.

      “Well, yes, I happen to know because Jacques, my second chauffeur, is in the regiment of Monsieur Valentin. They belong to the Sixth Brigade under General Paul Thalmann.”

      “Thalmann!” echoed the Baroness. “Ah, we know him quite well. He was commandant at Bruges a year ago. Then he was moved to Ghent. Aimée and I stayed with him for three days during the Exhibition. A fine old soldier. One of the best men in all Belgium.”

      Arnaud Rigaux smiled curiously. The Hebrew came out in him at that moment.

      “Yes,” he said, with slight hesitation. “But a gambler, my dear Baroness. He is in my debt to a considerable extent. Besides, I — well, I suspect him.”

      “Of what?” asked the great financier.

      “Of dealings with the enemy.”

      Aimée started.

      “What do you mean, m’sieur?” she asked quickly.

      “I simply mean what I say, Mademoiselle. General Thalmann has, to my knowledge, been on the verge of bankruptcy for the past three years. He is a bosom friend of a certain Karl Schnerb, whom I have long suspected of being a secret agent of Germany. After his acquaintance with Schnerb, the General began to repay me some of what I had lent him. Voilà tout!”

      “You say, then, that General Thalmann is in the pay of our enemies?” asked Aimée quickly.

      “You surely don’t mean that, Arnaud?” asked her father at the same moment.

      “I only tell you facts that I know, my dear Baron,” was their visitor’s reply. “And for that reason, and that alone, I say: ‘May God help our poor little Belgium.’”

      Aimée was silent.

      Was it possible that a traitor was in command of Edmond’s brigade?

      The girl held her breath. If what Arnaud Rigaux had alleged was the actual truth — and he always knew the truth — if such things were, then poor little Belgium was, alas! doomed.

      Chapter Nine

       The Kaiser’s Secret Agent

       Table of Contents

      “The position is a very grave one, Henri,” Rigaux explained when, a few minutes later, they were alone together in a small, circular, book-lined room, that room СКАЧАТЬ