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I have followed up every sort of clew I have transferred a dozen men. I have left nothing undone!" "With no result?" persisted Westerling impatiently "Yes, always the same result: That the leak is here in this house here in the grand headquarters of the army under our very noses. I know it is not the telegraphers or the clerks. It is a member of the staff!"
He looked up smilingly to Marta. "I have decided that I had rather not be a Westerling, Miss Galland," he said. "We'll make it unanimous. And you," he burst out to Lanstron "you legatee of old Partow; I've always said that he was the biggest man of our time. He has proved it by catching the spirit of our time and incarnating it."
A huge shadow shot at railway-train speed over their heads. Something very like fear flashed into his expression. "One of our dirigibles!" he exclaimed. "I confess it came so near that it gave me a sort of shock, too." "Only a shadow with no death in it," she said. "And there is death in every flash there on the range. General Westerling, have you ever been under fire?" she asked suddenly.
A faint expression appeared on the mask. So insistently could Hugo's mask hold attention that Westerling noted even a slight, thoughtful drawing down of the brow and one corner of the mouth. He could not conceive that the laws of gravity could be upset or that a private would undertake to have fun at the expense of a chief of staff. "Nothing, sir, unless I should make a long speech," he said.
Marta recalled the contrast between Westerling and Lanstron as they faced each other after the wreck of the aeroplane ten years ago: the iron invincibility of the elder's sturdy, mature figure and the alert, high-strung invincibility of the slighter figure of the younger man. "The evidence you asked for in that Mallin mutiny case," said Turcas, indicating the only remaining paper.
Vaguely, in his distress, he heard Westerling asking a question, while he saw all those eyes staring at him. "What information have we about Engadir?" "I believe it to be strongly fortified!" stammered Bouchard. "You believe! You have no information?" pursued Westerling. "No, sir," replied Bouchard. "Nothing nothing new!"
But Hugo's case was so extraordinary that it had reached Westerling's ears, and Bouchard knew that Westerling wished to see Hugo when he was apprehended. It was not for Bouchard to consider this desire of a chief of staff to deal with the case of a private in person as singular. No request of the chief of staff was singular to him. It became a matter of natural law.
Weren't they both made of flesh and bone and blood and nerves? Under the awful spell of the panorama, she did not see Westerling, who had stopped only a few feet distant with his aide and his valet, nor did he notice her as the tumult glazed his eyes. He was as an artist who looks on the ribbons of the canvas of his painting, or the sculptor on the fragments of his statue.
Neither the coming of darkness nor a chill rain kept recruits from village and farmhouse from dropping their tasks and leaving meals unfinished to swell the ranks. What Westerling had called the bovine public with a parrot's head had become a lion. "There's no use of giving any orders, to stop this flood," said an officer who had ridden fast to warn the Gray staff.
The golden glow of the sunset was running in his veins in a paean of personal triumph. The profile turned ever so little. Now it was looking at the point where Dellarme had lain dying. Westerling noted the smile playing on the lips. It had the quality of a smile over a task completed Dellarme's smile.
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