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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      The grey-moustached General, having complimented him upon his gallant conduct and his wonderful escape, ordered him to at once have his wound dressed. Then, rising from his camp-chair, he bowed politely to Aimée, saying:

      “I also wish to offer my heartiest congratulations to you, Mademoiselle, upon your providential escape from Dinant. I allow you to accompany Sous-officier Valentin to the Base Hospital. Captain Dulac, he added, turning to one of his officers present, please sign the necessary order. And note that I bestow the highest praise upon Sous-officier Valentin, of the Eighth Chasseurs, for penetrating into the enemy’s lines and obtaining much valuable intelligence.”

      “I may add, General, that I discovered, in Dinant, the Brussels financier, Arnaud Rigaux, dressed as a German Major, and, having myself proved that he was a spy, shot him?”

      “You shot Arnaud Rigaux!” exclaimed the General, staring at him. “Is that true?”

      “Yes, m’sieur.”

      “You are quite certain of this?”

      “Quite certain. Mademoiselle was present.”

      “Then please make a note of that also, Captain Dulac,” the commander said. “Only yesterday I received word from headquarters that he was to be captured, and wherever found, sent for trial by court-martial at Antwerp. So you, Valentin, it seems, have put a sudden end to this man’s dastardly career — eh?” and the well-set-up, grey-moustached man — one of Belgium’s bravest generals — grinned with satisfaction. “Well, I congratulate you, and you may rest assured that your distinguished services will not go unrewarded. Bon soir, Mademoiselle — Bon soir, Valentin.”

      And the pair were then led forth from the tent, away to that of the medical service, where a doctor quickly investigated Edmond’s wound.

      Aimée, fortunately perhaps, remained outside, for scarcely had her lover entered the tent, than he fell fainting. Restoratives were quickly administered, and the bullet was extracted under an anaesthetic, while she waited in patience outside. Edmond’s wound was, alas! of a far more serious character than the gallant soldier of Belgium had at first believed. In consequence of medical advice he was sent, next day, by train to the military hospital in Antwerp, Aimée, by order of the general, being allowed to accompany him in the military train.

      From Antwerp Aimée was able to communicate with both her mother and father, and a fortnight after her arrival there she received, with intense satisfaction, the joyful news that they had both met at Ostend, and had gone to London, Brussels being, of course, in the hands of the enemy.

      The Baroness wrote several times, urging her daughter to come to London — to the Langham Hotel, where they had taken up their temporary quarters — but the girl replied that she would not leave Edmond’s side, she having volunteered as a Red Cross nurse at the St. Elizabeth Hospital.

      For over a month Edmond Valentin, eager to return to the front and to still bear his part in the fighting, lay in his narrow bed in the long ward now filled to overflowing with wounded. His shoulder had been shattered, and more than one medical consultation had been held regarding it.

      Aimée, in her neat uniform as nurse, with the big scarlet cross upon the breast of her white apron, had learned the sad truth — that, in all probability, Edmond might never be able to use his right arm again, though no one had told him the painful fact.

      As he lay there he was ever dreaming of going back to again work that innocent-looking little machine-gun of his, which had sent to their deaths so many of the Huns of the Kaiser.

      The bitter truth was, however, told to him one day. The enemy, under General von Bäseler, were advancing upon Antwerp. They had destroyed Malines, and were almost at the gates of Belgium’s principal port. It was the third day in October, and British troops had now arrived to assist in the defence of Antwerp. All the wounded who could walk were ordered to leave.

      And so it happened that Edmond Valentin, accompanied by Aimée, resolved at last to escape to London, where the girl could rejoin her parents.

      With a huge crowd of refugees of all classes, the pair, ever faithful to each other — yet, be it said, greatly to Edmond’s regret — crossed one grey wintry afternoon to Dover, where, on the pier, the pair woe met by the Baron and Baroness, and carried with delight to that haven of the stricken — that sanctuary of the war — London.

      The gallant conduct of the Sous-officier of Belgian Chasseurs, in a shabby blue military great-coat, worn and torn, and with the right arm bandaged across his chest, had reached England through the Press long before. In the papers there had been brief accounts of his fearless penetration into the enemy’s lines, and the gallant rescue of the woman he so dearly loved. King Albert had bestowed upon him the Cross of the Order of Leopold, and his photograph — together with that of Aimée — had been published in many of the newspapers.

      Little wonder was it, therefore, that a little over a month later — on that well-remembered day in November when the British monitors from the sea assisted the Belgians and our own troops in the splendid defence of the Straits of Dover — newspaper reporters and photographers stood so eagerly upon that long flight of stone steps which lead up to the entrance of St. Martin’s Church, in Trafalgar Square, where a wedding of Belgian refugees was to take place.

      The happy couple emerged from the church at last man and wife, and Edmond Valentin, still in his shabby dark-blue great-coat, and with his arm bandaged, did not escape the ubiquitous photographers any more than did Aimée de Neuville — now little Madame Valentin.

      But both were modest in the happy dénouement of the great human drama, preferring to remain blissful in each other’s love, rather than to court any further publicity.

      True, most of the newspapers next day, — and especially the illustrated ones, — reported that the wedding had taken place, but there was only the vaguest hint of the real and actual romance which I have — perhaps somewhat indiscreetly — attempted to describe in the foregoing pages — the romance of those terribly dramatic happenings at the Sign of the Sword.

      The End.

      Number 70, Berlin

       Table of Contents

       Chapter One The Man of the Moment

       Chapter Two The Suspicions of Elise

       Chapter Three The House in Wimpole Street

       Chapter Four His Dying Words

       Chapter Five Certain Curious Facts

       Chapter Six Reveals the Victim

       Chapter Seven The Spider’s Web

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