The cheerful glow was fading from the sky when Don and Bobby Dunlap started out in quest of mild adventure.
The boys walked leisurely—in fact so leisurely that when Don Hale had his first glimpse of the three majestic oaks which concealed the old farmhouse from view, Venus, the evening star, was making its sparkling presence known in the bluish-gray firmament.
“See here, Donny,” almost whispered Bobby, “I don’t think we ought to make this a conventional visit. In our present capacity as detectives I feel that we’re justified in using any means at all to trap this old codger. Let’s steal up and do a little spying ourselves.”
“Just the scheme,” approved Don.
The two started ahead.
The dreary, deserted aspect of the surroundings, the distant booming of the guns and the nature of the expedition all combined to produce a tingling sensation in Don Hale’s nerves.
Now they were approaching the great trees, and the boy caught his first glimpse of the old dilapidated dwelling. In the dim shadows of the end of day, with a mystery hovering over it, it assumed in his eyes a weird and sinister appearance. The gables and chimneys were silhouetted crisply against the translucent tones of the ever-darkening sky. Don’s eyes roved over the windows, each a dull and lifeless patch of dark. Everything gave the impression of utter desolation.
“I don’t believe the mysterious peasant can be around just now,” he murmured. “And I reckon Bobby’s idea in regard to Jason Hamlin is altogether wrong.”
Skirting around the old oaks, the two reached an open stretch. However, there were masses of shrubbery beyond, affording excellent places of concealment; so, after a moment’s reflection, Don and Bobby continued straight along, and presently found themselves in the midst of the dense shadows not far from the entrance to the house.
A few minutes passed, and Don began to feel that such a vigil around a deserted house had in it something of the absurd and ridiculous.
“Bobby——” he began.
“Sh-h-h-h!” whispered Bobby.
Then silence between the two ensued.
And in all probability it would have remained unbroken for some time but for the sound of human voices suddenly coming from the house. They were raised, as though the speakers had become engaged in a heated argument.
The watchers were fairly electrified.
“Aha! What did I tell you!” blurted out Bobby, forgetting caution in his eagerness and excitement. “I know those voices. They belong to Hamlin and the spy.”
The altercation grew louder and more turbulent, then quieted down, until, finally, the quietude was as complete as before.
“I wonder what it all means!” murmured Don. “The mystery deepens. Ah! Things seem to be developing fast.”
Cautiously, he stepped over to Peur Jamais’ side. “What’s the next move in the game, Bobby?” he inquired, sotto voce—“the point-of-the-pistol act?”
“Keep still!” commanded Bobby, fiercely. “I’m trying to hear what they have to say. Did you catch any of the words?”
“Not one,” answered Don. Then, with a muttered exclamation indicative of extreme surprise and annoyance, he faced about, nudged Bobby in the ribs, and exclaimed in a low, suppressed tone: “As I live, some one is coming along the road. It won’t do to stay here. We’ll be seen.”
“And if we get around on the other side we’ll most likely be observed by the chaps in the house,” burst out Peur Jamais. “Who in the world could have expected anything like this? By George! It must be a veritable spies’ retreat.”
Somewhat precipitously, Bobby began to move around the vegetation, and Don joined him a moment later on the opposite side.
Peering between the leaves, the latter could soon make out a shadowy form approaching. But the light was too dim for him to see whether the man was civilian or soldier. The boy’s interest was aroused to the highest pitch.
What could this man’s errand be? Evidently he must know the mysterious peasant and be familiar with the grounds.
“Curious! Curious!” muttered Don.
Expectantly—anxiously, he waited until the man had passed, then began retracing his steps, with Bobby close at his heels.
When he had resumed his former position, the boy, gazing over the top of the branches and leaves, was just in time to observe the man disappear in the dense shadows of the old farmhouse.
“Now what do you think of all this?” almost stuttered Bobby. “Oh, boy, but I feel kind of sorry for Jasy, though. This night’s work may get him into a whole pile of trouble.”
He was evidently going to add something more, but the sound of voices again stopped him. They were no longer raised as if in anger, yet, nevertheless, the conversation was evidently being carried on with the greatest seriousness.
And just about this time the two disciples of Sherlock Holmes saw a very dim light appear in one of the windows of the first floor, which, flashing in an erratic fashion, rapidly grew stronger, as though some one were bringing a lamp into the room.
Very soon the last vestige of day had disappeared, and overhead the stars and constellations were shining and twinkling with that wonderful brilliancy which they only possess when viewed far from smoke-filled towns. The boys no longer feared discovery. Night, with all its mystery, all its weirdness and majesty, was upon them, and though his fellow pilot was only a few yards away Don could no longer distinguish his form.
Easy in mind, therefore, they were able to give their undivided attention to the house. Now and again the light was blotted out, as figures momentarily passed in front. It was all very interesting, invoking in the mind thoughts of plots, of mysteries and of the machinations of spies.
“If we could only hear what they are saying,” groaned Bobby.
“I know a way,” declared Don.
“How?”
“I’m going to crawl right up beneath the window and listen.”
“Bravo, Donny! I’m with you there.”
Carefully as the two proceeded, it was impossible, in the darkness, to avoid making some noise; and each time both involuntarily halted in their tracks, half expecting to hear some one come rushing out of the house to investigate.
“Great Scott!”
The young combat pilot could not repress this exclamation, and, at the same instant, he heard a low whistle coming from the unseen Bobby close at hand.
Both had been caused by a peculiar action of one of the occupants of the room. Lamp in hand, he had approached the window, and, thrusting the feeble light outside, moved it up and down and sideways several times.
Mystified—puzzled, Don Hale felt that any further advance under the peculiar circumstances would be entirely too risky, and he was about to whisper this opinion to Bobby when a very faint sound from the rear caused him to turn quickly. A peculiar tingling sensation shot through him. Yet he could not quite explain the reason why. What was it he had heard?—a footfall? Or, in the excitement, had his imagination been tricked by the rustling of the vegetation?
In the darkness and mystery of the night the unseen often assumes in the imagination formidable proportions, carrying with it curious, undefinable fears.
And while Don Hale stood there, irresolute, his ears distinctly caught the sound of footsteps. Then followed a sharp, metallic click.
A stream of whitish light was fantastically streaking across the ground toward the boys.
An involuntary exclamation escaped Don’s lips. He felt himself almost shivering.
But a few paces away stood a man. And, clearly, the electric torch which he carried was seeking them out. What was the meaning of it all? How had they been so unerringly tracked?
Nearer and nearer came the brilliant white rays; then leaving the ground they shot upward, wavered forth and back erratically and presently fell squarely upon his face.
“Make no move, Messieurs!” exclaimed a strong, firm voice. “You are under arrest!”
“Under arrest!” gasped Don, literally astounded. “Who—who are you?”
“I don’t—I don’t understand!” quavered Bobby Dunlap. Rather feebly, sepulchrally he echoed Don Hale’s query: “Who are you?”
The white light suddenly described a circle in the air, and flashed for one brief, solitary instant, upon a silver shield. The man was holding his coat open, thus allowing it to be seen.
“What—what does this mean?” stuttered Peur Jamais, while Don Hale, more surprised, more nonplused than he had ever been in his life, vainly strove to see the features of the mysterious person before them.
“It means that, as a member of the French secret service, I am carrying out my orders,” came the astonishing rejoinder. “Let me repeat: you are under arrest.”
“But why? What for?” almost exploded Bobby, who had found his voice and nerve. “You have made some extraordinary mistake. Aha! Now I think I know what it means—you’ve got the wrong people, that’s it. Those you are seeking are in that house,—in that house, do you understand! Quick, now, before they get away.”
To further increase Bobby’s agitated and disturbed state of mind the man uttered a gruff laugh, following this with a loud whistle.
Almost instantly, as if in answer, footsteps sounded, and, on turning quickly, Don and Bobby saw three men just leaving the house; the beams from a swinging lantern carried by the foremost now and then throwing weird splotches of light upon their forms, one instant bringing them out in sharp relief, the next allowing the darkness to again gather them in its folds.
“It’s all utterly beyond me,” muttered Don Hale, as he viewed the strange little procession approaching.
The man with the lantern was the mysterious peasant. And, strangely enough, he showed no more surprise at finding the two American aviators so close to his door than if such a visit were the most ordinary and commonplace thing in the world. One of those accompanying him was Jason Hamlin; the other the boys had never seen before.
Jason Hamlin was the first to speak.
“And so we meet under rather peculiar circumstances!” he remarked, harshly. “Let me say, Peur Jamais, that——”
“Let me say something first,” interrupted Bobby, savagely. “Do you know what he tells us?”—he jerked his finger in the direction of the man with the electric torch—“that we are under arrest.”
“So am I,” exclaimed Hamlin, in a voice which shook with suppressed anger.
“You, too, under arrest!” gasped Don. “By Jove, this is certainly a weird night!”
“And how about that chap parading around in a peasant’s blouse and wooden shoes?” cried Peur Jamais. “If any one ought to be arrested he’s the one.” He turned to the secret service man. “I demand that you take him into custody. He’s an impostor—a—a——”
“Softly—softly, my young friend,” broke in the mysterious peasant. “I deeply regret that an unpleasant duty had fallen to my lot, particularly as our country has every reason to be grateful to America.”
He threw open his thin blue blouse, at the same instant raising his lantern. And as the yellow light shone on another shield precisely similar to the one which adorned the breast of the other man, both Don Hale and Bobby Dunlap gave voice to exclamations of the greatest surprise and wonderment.
“So you, too, belong to the secret service!” cried Don.
“Can—can you beat it!” came from Bobby, weakly.
“I think it would be a rather hard job,” broke in Jason Hamlin. “And——”
He was interrupted by the third man, who had been a silent witness to the proceeding.
“Let me put in a word,” he exclaimed, authoritatively. “I also belong to the secret service; and I wish to say to you young Americans that you are at liberty to return to the villa—the headquarters of the Lafayette Escadrille. Under no circumstances, however, are you to leave it until this affair has been entirely cleared up. I and my camarades are not here to answer questions. Your captain has already been notified. Remember, you are technically prisoners. This may seem harsh, ungrateful, and unappreciative perhaps of the work you have done for France, but the law knows no sentiment; it is cold and pitiless. Now you may go.” Addressing his compatriots, he added: “Come, Messieurs.”
Thereupon the three secret service men, with words of adieu, turned toward the house.
“I never was so angry, so wilted with surprise and disgust in the whole course of my life!” fumed Bobby Dunlap. “Not here to answer questions, eh! Never even had the politeness to say why we were pinched. It’s an outrage—that’s what it is!”
“Prisoners, eh!” remarked Don, with a dry laugh.
“And the comedy has to have still another act!” broke in Jason Hamlin, ironically. “You are right, Bobby: it is an outrage. But what you mean is not exactly what I mean.”
And, with this enigmatic remark, the aviator started to make his way toward the road. The two other “prisoners” followed.
The Hale-Hamlin-Dunlap case certainly created a sensation among the pilots of the Lafayette Escadrille—indeed it created a great deal more talk than the fact that the Germans had begun to paint their battleplanes in colors of the most extraordinary and brilliant hue.
No one could understand the affair; it appeared a most unfathomable mystery, and especially so when the captain of the squadron politely informed Victor Gilbert that he, too, was technically a prisoner.
“Oh, chains and dungeons! I suppose, the next thing, they’ll be arresting the whole squadron!” cried Bobby Dunlap when apprised of this new and singular development in thecause celebre. “Goodness gracious, but I wish that last act would begin!”
The patience of the “prisoners” was not to be severely taxed, however; for, on the following morning, they received a summons to appear in the reception hall of the villa.
Entering, they found what appeared to be a court about to open its session. Seated on one side of a long table was the captain of the squadron and a gray-haired military man, a lieutenant, as was revealed by his uniform. Opposite to them sat the secret service men, the former “peasant” scarcely recognizable in his civilian’s clothes. Numerous papers of an official character were strewn about the table, greatly heightening the appearance of a court procedure.
“Messieurs,” exclaimed the military man, looking up gravely, “kindly take seats at the table.”
He looked like a stern old judge as he spoke. His eyes were cold and hard, the lines on his face grim and set and his closely cropped whitish moustache revealed a mouth indicating determination and strength of character.
Bobby Dunlap as a rule was not disposed to take things seriously, but under the present circumstances the silence in the big room, the frigid atmosphere, the formality and the gravity expressed upon the faces of the military men had its effect, making him feel ill at ease, uncomfortable and nervous.
“Messieurs, we are now ready to proceed,” announced the lieutenant at the head of the table. “Let me affirm in the beginning that we have no doubt of your loyalty or devotion to the cause which you espouse. At the same time I must explain that the military authorities as well as the secret service officials never allow the most trivial circumstance to pass without the most thorough investigation. In numerous cases everything is, of course, found to be entirely right, but it may happen that the hundredth will turn out otherwise, and perhaps that which appeared futile—a waste of time—may be revealed, under the searching light of truth, as a dangerous intrigue of our enemies.”
“Indeed, most extraordinary cases have come to our attention,” put in the captain.
“We will hear Monsieur Robert Dunlap first,” continued the officer in charge of the proceedings. “Monsieur Dunlap, kindly stand up.”
At this, Peur Jamais, whose general appearance and manner belied the name bestowed upon him by his friends, obeyed.
The interrogation began.
“Is it true,” asked the officer, “that on several occasions you made use of this expression in reference to Jason Hamlin: ‘other games are just as dangerous’?”
“Yes, Monsieur the Lieutenant,” gulped Bobby, red and confused.
“In using that expression what did you infer?”
“Well, I—I—you see——” Peur Jamais, finding his tongue getting tangled, abruptly paused. Then, having mastered in a measure his uncomfortable feelings, he resumed: “I heard Monsieur Victor Gilbert make this observation, as well as several others to Monsieur Hamlin, all seeming to indicate——”
Bobby halted again; the flush on his cheek deepened.
“Continuez, Monsieur,” commanded the lieutenant.
“That—that he might be a German spy,” exclaimed Bobby, desperately. “I heard so many stories about the espionage system from old Père Goubain, of the Café Rochambeau, near our training camp, that perhaps I became unduly suspicious.”
The man whom the boys had formerly called the “mysterious peasant” looked up with a smile.
“With Monsieur the Lieutenant’s permission,” he exclaimed, “I will explain, though I do not wish the fact to be generally known, that Monsieur Goubain is affiliated with the secret service and has given us much valuable information.”
“Oh—oh!” gasped Bobby, while all the other Americans in the room uttered suppressed exclamations.
“His object in speaking so freely was not only to show you the dangers that existed but to get you to keep your eyes open.” The man smiled. “In one case, at least, he evidently succeeded.”
“You have no evidence against Monsieur Hamlin?” continued the lieutenant, addressing Bobby.
“No, Monsieur the Lieutenant,” responded Peur Jamais.
“That will do. You may sit down. Monsieur Gilbert.”
When the former college student rose to his feet he showed none of the perturbation which had affected Bobby.
“Monsieur Gilbert,” began the lieutenant, “it will be necessary for you to explain your entire connection with this affair, which, as our report indicates, began long before you came to France and joined the Lafayette Escadrille.”
“Yes, Monsieur the Lieutenant,” returned Gilbert. In an easy, conversational tone he began: “Before hostilities broke out in 1914 my father and Jason Hamlin’s were firm friends, as well as business partners. Mrs. Hamlin was born in Germany, and her husband himself had distant relatives living there. The war had not continued very long before disputes began to arise between my father and his partner on account of the latter’s ardent championship of the cause of Germany.” Gilbert glanced in the direction of Jason Hamlin. “His son, too, was equally disposed to favor that country. And as our fathers had heated arguments so did we. Both of us, I may say, were at work for the firm. Finally the differences became so acute that after a particularly violent altercation, Mr. Hamlin, Senior, announced his intention of withdrawing from the firm, which he shortly did. His son, too, went with him; and, from the closest of friends, we became so estranged as to be considered enemies.”
“After the entrance of America into the war did the Hamlins still remain pro-German?” queried the officer.
Victor Gilbert smiled.
“I have never had any conversation with the Mr. Hamlin, Senior, since that time,” he replied, “and I do not know what his opinions are. Frankly, I must say that in regard to the son it seemed incomprehensible to me that one with such strong German proclivities could so change his opinions as to come over here and fight for the Allied cause.”
“May I speak?” interjected Hamlin, somewhat heatedly.
“Your turn will come in a few minutes, Monsieur,” said the presiding officer. “Continuez, Monsieur Gilbert.”
“I was astounded when Hamlin came to the aviation school. And, judging from many things he had said, I feared that perhaps he might actually be a spy. And in some of our altercations—altercations that interested Monsieur Dunlap—I intimated just as much.”
“You certainly did,” jeered Jason Hamlin, with an angry glare. “And if you’d only had sense enough to——”
“Silence—silence!” interrupted the lieutenant.
“Naturally, words may be said in the heat of anger which would not be uttered when cooler judgment prevails,” continued Victor, doggedly. “Why, I ask, shouldn’t I have been suspicious? And when I remarked to Hamlin that ‘other games are just as dangerous’ it was meant as a warning for him to go a bit slow.”
“Has your opinion been altered?” asked the lieutenant.
Victor Gilbert nodded.
“Yes, Monsieur the Lieutenant,” he replied. “And the reason is because of Hamlin’s very excellent record since he joined the squadron.”
Jason Hamlin now had the opportunity to explain his side of the case. As he began speaking his manner was decidedly different from that of the other two witnesses. He was clearly angry—aggressive, and his voice, raised high, rang through the room.
“I am very willing to admit that I was pro-German, as Monsieur Gilbert told you,” he declared. “But, as events change so can one’s opinions change with them. Before America became involved in hostilities I had a perfect right to favor Germany; but to have done so afterward would have been disloyal—indeed a traitorous act. No one has the right to go against his own country. And when I learned that Victor Gilbert had joined an aviation school in France I determined to show him, as well as any others who might have doubted my patriotism, that they were entirely mistaken. And as words without action count for little, I decided to follow his example and become an aviator.”
At this point Jason Hamlin’s stern expression deepened. He clenched his fists; and when he spoke again it was in even louder tones than before.
“My friend Monsieur Dunlap may think that he alone pierced the disguise of the peasant, but, if so, he is in error; and, surmising that I might be under suspicion, I made it a point to cultivate the man’s acquaintance. At last the feelings which injustice always arouse caused me to decide that it was time to make an end of the farce—hence my visit to the farmhouse. I boldly told the secret service man that I knew what was going on; I said he could strip off his peasant’s disguise and work to better advantage elsewhere. I declared that I was receiving a very poor reward for daily risking my life for the Allied cause. We had some words, which were brought to an end by the appearance of that secret service man sitting there.” With a wave of his hand, Jason Hamlin continued: “The rights of an individual are as sacred as the rights of the government.” He drew himself erect. “I ask—I demand to know if you have the slightest evidence against me?”
His flashing eyes, the fearlessness of his manner, the righteous indignation expressed in his voice brought a strong and dramatic touch to the situation.
Following his words there came a silence, curious and impressive.
Bobby Dunlap, fearing that in the judicial atmosphere this outburst might bring a stern rebuke, stared almost open-mouthed at the lieutenant. The latter, however, showing neither surprise nor displeasure, remarked, calmly:
“We have no evidence against you, Monsieur Hamlin. And I may say that reports received from our agents in America are thoroughly satisfactory. Kindly take your seat while we listen for a few moments to Monsieur Castel of the secret service.”
Smilingly, the ex-peasant stood up.
“It won’t take very much time,” he announced. “I am glad indeed that everything has terminated so satisfactorily for all concerned. This case, I may say, was all brought about by remarks being overheard. Sometimes a whisper is enough to set the secret service in action. My confreres and I immediately began an investigation, and all of you young Messieurs have been under surveillance for some time.”
“Oh—oh! Can you beat it!” muttered Peur Jamais.
“Messieurs Glenn and Dunlap’s actions on the occasion of their visit to the house were rather peculiar, especially that of this young Monsieur here.” He pointed to Bobby. “It could be readily seen that his curiosity was not merely the expression of a youthful desire to see the house, and, when he, in the company of Monsieur Hale, started off on their walk yesterday afternoon they were shadowed by my fellow detectives here. And their actions, of course, were so suspicious—a fact which they themselves must admit—that there was nothing to do but place them under arrest. While Monsieur Boulanger came into the house to inform me that the boys were in the garden, Monsieur Brion, who knew where they were concealed, kept track of their movements, and, at a signal which I gave by means of the lamp, he brought the matter to a climax. I believe there is nothing more for me to add.”
Bobby Dunlap and Don Hale were now called upon for an explanation, which they gave to the entire satisfaction of those conducting the examination.
At its conclusion the stern-faced lieutenant, with a suspicion of a smile, exclaimed:
“You have all been found not guilty, and, in accordance with that fact, Messieurs Gilbert and Hamlin, I sentence you to shake hands and forget whatever differences may have existed between you. Human nature is fallible, and, had the case been reversed, you, Monsieur Hamlin, would have acted in a precisely similar manner to that of Monsieur Gilbert. Let me take this occasion to thank and compliment you for the noble work which you have been doing in the cause of humanity and justice.”
The two young aviators nodded, in recognition, and each, in turn, thanked the lieutenant.
Then, without a remaining trace of animosity, they clasped each other’s hands.
And in this happy fashion ended the case of Hamlin and the peasant, which was a nine-days’ wonder in the escadrille.
But, though it was ended, the conversation about it by no means came to such an abrupt termination. The principals came in for many bantering remarks, and had to stand a great deal of good-natured chaffing. Of course Bobby Dunlap was the principal victim.
“I say, Peur Jamais,” laughed George, “can you now almost hear the commander saying ‘My brave and loyal friends, in the name of my countrymen, I thank you’?”
“Joke if you like,” grinned Bobby, good-naturedly. “Anyway, I made a few truthful predictions.”
“How?”
“I said it wasn’t going to be a laughing matter to some one.”
“Correct, old chap.”
“And, after all, it certainly did mean an astonishing sequel.”
And so speaking, Bobby chuckled mirthfully.
Several weeks later, in the spacious grounds of a chateau occupied by the military authorities, a lively and spectacular scene was being enacted. Soldiers were drawn up in a hollow square. And there, where danger did not exist, could be seen all the pomp and pageantry of warfare, so lacking in the actual operations. The warm, clear sunshine shone on generals’ uniforms, on military motor-cars and on high-spirited horses, champing at their bits.
And besides the military there were present a few men in civilian dress, the most prominent among them being an extremely ponderous man with a most beaming face whom all the former students at the École Militaire de Beaumont recognized as old Père Goubain, the proprietor of the Café Rochambeau.
What was the occasion of all this festivity?
It was because a number of airmen, Red Cross ambulance drivers and soldiers had so distinguished themselves as to earn the gratitude of the French Republic that they were to be awarded the Croix de Guerre and other decorations.
Among those who were recipients of the War Cross were Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert. It was Don Hale’s feat in saving the Caudron photographic machine and his subsequent destruction of the observation balloon which had brought him the coveted honor.
And after a general had pinned the Croix de Guerre to his breast and the proceedings were over the first to shake his hand was old Père Goubain.
“Ah! La France can never lose with such young men as you enlisted in her cause,” he exclaimed. “And now, mon ami, what are your plans?”
“I hope to be transferred to the American air service as soon as possible,” returned the smiling Don Hale.
“I knew that would be the answer,” cried old Père Goubain. “And I am very certain that Monsieur Don Hale with the Yanks will be as successful as he was with the Lafayette Squadron, and make a name for himself that will carry beyond the seas.”
The Stories in this Series are:DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONEDON HALE OVER THEREDON HALE WITH THE FLYING SQUADRONDON HALE WITH THE YANKS (in press)
The Stories in this Series are:
DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE
DON HALE OVER THERE
DON HALE WITH THE FLYING SQUADRON
DON HALE WITH THE YANKS (in press)