The Lost Naval Papers | Page 9

in retaining my faith."
"What became of Hagan?" I asked, for I wished to bring the narrative to a clean artistic finish.
"I am not sure," answered Cary, "though I gave evidence as ordered by the court-martial. But I rather think that I have here Hagan's epitaph." He took out his pocket-book, and drew forth a slip of paper upon which was gummed a brief newspaper cutting. This he handed to me, and I read as follows:
"The War Office announces that a prisoner who was charged with espionage and recently tried by court-martial at the Westminster Guildhall was found guilty and sentenced to death. The sentence was duly confirmed and carried out yesterday morning."
* * * * *
Two months passed. Summer, what little there was of it, had gone, and my spirits were oppressed by the wet and fog and dirt of November in the North. I desired neither to write nor to read. My one overpowering longing was to go to sleep until the war was over and then to awake in a new world in which a decent civilised life would once more be possible.
In this unhappy mood I was seated before my study fire when a servant brought me a card. "A gentleman," said she, "wishes to see you. I said that you were engaged, but he insisted. He's a terrible man, sir."
I looked at the card, annoyed at being disturbed; but at the sight of it my torpor fell from me, for upon it was written the name of that detective officer whom in my story I had called William Dawson, and in the corner were the letters "C.I.D." (Criminal Investigation Department). I had become a criminal, and was about to be investigated!

CHAPTER II
AT CLOSE QUARTERS
Dawson entered, and we stood eyeing one another like two strange dogs. Neither spoke for some seconds, and then, recollecting that I was a host in the presence of a visitor, I extended a hand, offered a chair, and snapped open a cigarette case. Dawson seated himself and took a cigarette. I breathed more freely. He could not design my immediate arrest, or he would not have accepted of even so slight a hospitality. We sat upon opposite sides of the fire, Dawson saying nothing, but watching me in that unwinking cat-like way of his which I find so exasperating. Many times during my association with Dawson I have longed to spring upon him and beat his head against the floor--just to show that I am not a mouse. If his silence were intended to make me uncomfortable, I would give him evidence of my perfect composure.
"How did you find me out?" I asked calmly.
His start of surprise gratified me, and I saw a puzzled look come into his eyes. "Find out what?" he muttered.
"How did you find out that I wrote a story about you?"
"Oh, that?" He grinned. "That was not difficult, Mr.--er--Copplestone. I asked Mr.--er--Richard Cary for your real name and address, and he had to give them to me. I was considering whether I should prosecute both him and you."
"No doubt you bullied Cary," I said, "but you don't alarm me in the least. I had taken precautions, and you would have found your way barred if you had tried to touch either of us."
"It is possible," snapped Dawson. "I should like to lock up all you writing people--you are an infernal nuisance--but you seem to have a pull with the politicians."
We were getting on capitally: the first round was in my favour, and I saw another opportunity of showing my easy unconcern of his powers.
"Oh no, Mr.--er--William Dawson. You would not lock us up, even if all the authority in the State were vested in the soldiers and the police. For who would then write of your exploits and pour upon your heads the bright light of fame? The public knows nothing of Mr. ----" (I held up his card), "but quite a lot of people have heard of William Dawson."
"They have," assented he, with obvious satisfaction. "I sent a copy of the story to my Chief--just to put myself straight with him. I said that it was all quite unauthorised, and that I would have stopped it if I could."
"Oh no, you wouldn't. Don't talk humbug, Mr. William Dawson. During the past two months you have pranced along the streets with your head in the clouds. And in your own home Mrs. Dawson and the little Dawsons--if there are any--have worshipped you as a god. There is nothing so flattering as the sight of oneself in solid black print upon nice white paper. Confess, now. Are you not at this moment carrying a copy of that story of mine in your breast pocket next your heart, and don't you flourish it before your colleagues and rivals about six