Hehad known the mill all his life; at least he believed he had. He had gazed upon that awesome black ruin, keeping watch and ward over the wicked little cove below it, like some sentinel on guard over a dangerous criminal, with wide, childish eyes, and a mind full of terrified speculation. He had known it later, when, with boyish bravado, he had flouted the horrific stories of a superstitious countryside, and explored its barren, ruined recesses. He had known it still later, when, with manhood's eyes opening to a dim appreciation of all those things which have gone before in the great effort of life, he had seen in it a picturesque example of the endless struggle which has gone on since the dawn of life.
So he thought he knew it all.
Now the limitations of his knowledge were forcing themselves upon him. Now he was realizing that there were secrets by the score in those every-day things which a lifetime of contact may never reveal. The strangeness of it all set him marvelling. The limitations of human understanding seemed extraordinarily narrow.
He gazed down into the gaping cavity beneath his feet, and, by the dim rays of a lighted lantern, counted the worn stone steps until the darkness below swallowed up their outline.
Ruxton Farlow straightened himself up and glanced about him at the bare stone walls, from the joints of which the cement had long since fallen. He looked up at the worm-eaten, oaken rafters which had stood the wear of centuries. The flooring which they supported had long since fallen into decay, and he only wondered how much longer those sturdy oaken beams would continue to support the colossal weight of the millstones now resting from their grinding labors.
Through the rents which time and weather had wrought he saw the warm glow of daylight above, for all was ruin in the great old mill, ruin within and without. As it was with the walls of stone, and the great tower of woodwork above them, so it was with the outbuildings beyond the doorway, within which he stood. The walls remained, heavily buttressed by the hardy hands of a race of men who had understood so well the necessity for fortifying their homes against all eventualities, but the timbers of the roofs had long since fallen victims to the inclemencies of the seasons and the ruthless "North-easters" which, probably, since the time when the iron shores of Britain first emerged from beneath the waters, had beaten their relentless wings against the barrier which held up their freedom.
Ruxton set his lantern on the ground and moved away to the wide doorway, which no longer possessed the remotest sign of the old wooden doors which had probably been at one time heavy enough to resist a siege. Here he drew a letter from his pocket and read it carefully over by the light of the sunset.
"Dear Mr. Farlow:
"I never knew your wonderful coast could be so interesting, even absorbing. I feel I owe you personal thanks for a delightful time, simply because you live—where you live. I have discovered a most wonderful spot. I say discovered, but probably you have known it from the days when you were first able to toddle about by yourself. However, I must tell you of it. It is an old, old, ruined mill, regarded by the folks on your coast as an evil place which is haunted by the spirits of the smugglers who once upon a time used it as the headquarters for their nefarious trade. But the incredible part of it is we unearthed a secret in it which has remained hidden for generations, possibly centuries. Now listen carefully and I will tell you of this secret. In the middle of the stone chamber under the mill there is the entrance to a passage which communicates with that villainous cove over which the evil eye of the old mill forever gazes. Six inches beneath the surface of the debris on the floor there is a slate slab, and, on raising this, you will discover a stone staircase which goes down, down,—follow it, and you shall see what you shall see. I have since discovered that this is theonly means of reaching the beach of the cove—unless you possess wings. But I began this note with the intention of only telling you how much I am looking forward to seeing you again on Thursday evening at eight o'clock. I do hope you are taking full advantage of your vacation from parliamentary work, and are storing up plenty of good health upon your wonderful, wonderful moors.
"Yours very sincerely,"Vita Vladimir."
Ruxton refolded the letter and put it away. He understood it was the final summons to that great adventure which was to tell him of the threat overshadowing his beloved country.
He had obeyed it readily, eagerly, and now that the reality of the whole thing was developing he paused to consider the motives urging him.
He was going to witness things first hand. He was glad. His understanding of duty assured him that it was the only means by which he could hope to convince others, when the time came. But was this his sole motive? Was this the motive which had inspired that feeling of exaltation when he first read the perfumed note, so carefully written lest it should fall into wrong hands? He knew it was not.
His eyes were raised to the glistening sea away beyond the cove. He was gazing straight out through the narrow opening of the cove where the precipitous cliffs rose sheer out of the blue waters and marked the entrance which the country-folk sensationally loved to call "Hell's Gate." His mind was searching and probing the feelings which inspired him, and he knew that the beckoning hand of the woman was exercising a greater power than any sense of duty. He did not blind himself. He had no desire to. Those dark Slavonic eyes of his were wide and bright, and the half smile of them was full of an eager warmth. The idealist mind behind them was widely open to its own imagery. He saw through those Hell's Gates the perfect, palpitating figure which had poured out its burden of soul to him on the edge of those very cliffs; and she was—beckoning.
The youth of him had been engulfed in the soul of the woman. Nor, as yet, did he realize the extent of the power she was exercising. All he knew was that he had neither the power nor desire to resist the summons, and herein lay the distinguishing mark of those whom Destiny claims.
After a few moments he glanced at his watch. And at once the alertness of the man was displayed. It was twenty minutes to eight, and shortly after eight it would be low tide. The appointment had been made with regard to that, and that while he approached from the land, she would come by water. Therefore he must not delay.
Dismissing every other consideration he turned back to the mysterious stairway he had unearthed and began its descent, aided by the light of the lantern he had discovered secreted upon the top step, ready for his use.
His progress was rapid and easy. The vaulted, declining passage beneath the mill was high and wide, and constructed of masonry calculated to withstand the erosion of ages. It was moist and slimy, and the steps were at times slippery, but these things were no deterrents.
The stairway, however, seemed endless in the dim lantern light, and by the time he had completed the journey he had counted upwards of one hundred steps. At the bottom he paused and looked back up the way he had come, but, in the blackness of the tunnel, his light revealed little more than the first few steps.
Without further pause he turned to ascertain the nature of the place upon which the stairway had debouched. It was a wide and lofty cavern of Nature's fashioning, except that the walls and the natural obstructions of the flooring had been rendered smooth and clear by the hand of man. It was easy to estimate the purposes of this subterranean abode. There was less imagination in the legends of the old mill than he had supposed. If the books of his childish reading had any foundation in their local color this was certainly the den of some old-time smugglers.
He passed rapidly along the declining passage, and the end of it came as he expected to find it. It was a cave which opened in the face of the cliff overlooking the cove, but so ingeniously hidden by Nature that its presence could never have been even guessed at by any chance visit from the sea.
He stood at the opening and gazed out upon the already twilit cove. But he could not see the sea from where he stood; only along the face of the cliff to his right, down which, zigzagging and winding, a sort of rough-hewn stairway communicated with the beach below. In front of him a great projection of rock, as though riven from the main cliff at some far-off time by the colossal forces of Nature, hid the entire entrance of the cavern. And so narrow was the space intervening that he could touch it with an outstretching of his arm. It was a remarkable hiding-place. Nor did he marvel that he had never heard of it before. But the rapidly deepening twilight of the cove warned him of the approach of the hour of his appointment. So he blew out his lantern and began the descent to the beach nearly fifty feet below.
Within five minutes he was standing in the centre of a patch of golden sand with the still ebbing water of the cove lapping gently at his feet.
A curious change had come over him. All interest inspired by the journey through the cavern was entirely gone. Even, for the time, he had no longer any thought of the purpose for which he was there. His mind was absorbed in the curious weird of the place, and the dreadful feeling of overwhelming might bearing in and down upon him.
The appalling grey barrenness, the height of the frowning ramparts which surrounded him on all sides, except the narrow opening to the sea. The absolute inaccessibility of those frowning walls, and the melancholy scream of the thousands of gulls which haunted the place. It was tremendous. It was terrible. But added to all these things was a discovery which he made almost upon the instant. With the instinct of personal security his eyes sought the high-water mark upon the beach. There was none. It was high up on the cliff sides at no point less that ten feet above the highest point of the beach. Herein lay the terror of the cove which lived in the minds of the dwellers upon the moors. Here was its real terror. A rising tide, and the secret of the smuggler's cavern undiscovered, and—death! He smiled as he thought of the name given to the entrance to the cove. Hell's Gate! It was surely——
"Ahoy!"
The cry echoed about the grey walls in haunting fashion. Ruxton was startled out of his reverie. In a moment his repulsion at what he beheld was forgotten. He remembered only his purpose, and his searching eyes gazed out over the water.
"Ahoy!" he replied, when the last echo of the summons had died out.
He could see no boat. He could discover no human being. And—it was a man's voice that had hailed him.
For some moments a profound silence prevailed. Even the gulls ceased their mournful cries at the intrusion of a human voice upon their solitude.
Ruxton searched in every direction. Was this another surprise of this extraordinarily mysterious place? Was this——? Quite suddenly his gaze became riveted upon a spit of low, weed-covered rock, stretching out into the calm water like a breakwater. There was a sound of clambering feet, and as his acute hearing caught it, a sort of instinct thrust his hand into his coat pocket where an automatic pistol lay. Then he laughed at himself and withdrew his hand sharply. The figure of a man scrambled up on to the breakwater.
They stood eyeing each other for several thoughtful moments. Then without attempting to draw nearer the stranger called to him.
"Mr. Farlow, sir. This way, if you please."
Without hesitation Ruxton crossed over to him and scrambled on to the rocks.
"You are from——?" he demanded.
The question was put sharply, but without suspicion.
"The lady's waiting for you out there," replied the man simply. "We haven't much time, sir. You can't come in here on a rising tide, and you can't get out of it either. It's hell's own place for small craft, or any craft for that matter on a rising tide." He threw an anxious glance at the water.
Ruxton was gazing down at the little boat lying the other side of the natural breakwater. It was a petrol launch of some kind, but small and light as a cockle-shell. There was another man in the stern, and he observed that both he and the man beside him were in some sort of uniform.
"I didn't see you come in," he went on curiously.
"We've been lying here half an hour, sir. Our orders were to wait till just before the tide turned. We've got about half an hour, sir," the man added significantly.
"Where's the vessel?" enquired Ruxton.
"Just outside, sir."
"I didn't see her."
"She's lying submerged."
"And Miss Vladimir is—aboard?"
"The lady is, sir," replied the man, with a shadow of a smile in his deep-set blue eyes.
The stranger stood aside, a direct invitation to Ruxton to climb down into the boat. But the latter made no move to do so.
Then the man pushed his peaked cap back from his forehead and displayed a shock of sandy grey hair which matched his closely trimmed whiskers.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, a trifle urgently, "but we've got to get out smart. Once the tide turns it races in here like an avalanche. We'll never make Hell's Gates if we aren't smart, and we don't want to get caught up in Hell itself."
The man's urgency had the desired effect. Ruxton stooped down and lowered himself into the bow of the boat.
"That's right, sir, it'll trim the boat," the man approved, as he dropped lightly in amidships. In a moment the clutch was let in and the little craft backed out of its narrow harbor.
It was a moment of crisis. Ruxton Farlow had practically committed himself to the power of these strangers. Not quite though. For he had taken the bow seat, and his loaded automatic was in his pocket still. However, the position was not without considerable risk. He had expected to meet Vita. Instead he had been met by two men in uniform. They were both in middle life, and burly specimens of the seafaring profession.
He had calculated the chances carefully before taking his final decision. Moreover he had closely appraised the men in charge of the boat. They were British. Of that he was certain. Nor were they men without education. On the whole he did not see that the balance lay very much in their favor if any treachery were contemplated.
"You are British," he said to the man in front of him, as the boat swung round head on to the gates of the cove and began to gather speed.
"Yes, sir. Served my time in the Navy—and had a billet elsewhere ever since."
"Since the war?"
"No, sir. Before the war."
"Where?"
The man faced round with a smile, while his comrade drove the little boat at a headlong pace through the racing waters.
"Where a good many of our Navy's cast-offs go, sir. In Germany."
Briefas was the interval between leaving the treacherous cove and the moment when Ruxton Farlow found himself surrounded by the tasteful luxury of the saloon of the long, low, strange-looking craft waiting just outside to receive him, it was not without many thrilling experiences.
To a man of less imagination the very few minutes in the petrol launch would have meant little more than a rather exciting experience. But for Ruxton they possessed a far deeper significance. Nor was the least the feeling that he had slammed-to the doors of the life behind him, bolted and barred and locked them, and—flung away the key.
That was the man. Sensitive to every mood that assailed him, yet urged on by an indomitable purpose, he had no more power to raise a hand to stay the tide of life upon which he was floating than he had to check the racing current which bore him beyond the threatening shoals of the Old Mill Cove.
What a mill-race the latter was! The man in charge of the launch had by no means exaggerated it. The little craft, urged by its powerful motor, surged through the water till the sea washed over its prow, and Ruxton was forced to shelter beneath the decked-in peak, whence he could observe the man amidships, who never once desisted from his efforts on the well pump.
Then, just beyond the jaws of the cove, they entered a stretch of tumultuous popple where the ebb met the opposing currents along the coast. Here the boat was tossed about like the proverbial feather, and to navigate it into the smooth water beyond demanded all the consummate seamanship of those responsible for its safety.
Then, out of the heart of the grey waters, came the abrupt rising of the submersible. There was a tremendous swirling and upheaval less than fifty yards away, and the grey-green monster of the deep reared its forlorn-looking deck, with its conning-tower, its sealed hatchways, and its desolate deck rails, above the surface, and lay there, long and low and as evil-looking as only a mind filled with memories of the late war could have pictured it.
Two minutes later Ruxton had left the little launch, had stepped aboard the submersible and passed down the "companion" to the saloon beneath the flush deck, once more to be greeted by the woman who seemed to have become so much a part of the new life opening out before him.
Her greeting was cordial.
"I knew you would come," she said, as she left her hand for a moment in his. Then her grey eyes, so full of warmth, shadowed for a moment. "And now that you have come I—could almost wish that I had had nothing to do with it. You see, I haven't the courage of my convictions. I know they are right, but—I am afraid."
Out of the Heart of the Waters Rose the Submersible.Out of the Heart of the Waters Rose the Submersible.
Out of the Heart of the Waters Rose the Submersible.Out of the Heart of the Waters Rose the Submersible.
When he answered her the influence of the woman was greater than Ruxton knew.
"You need not be," he said simply. "We are not fighting for ourselves, so—why fear?"
The woman had no verbal reply. She regarded for one moment the strong face of the man, and the meaning of that regard was known only to herself. Had Ruxton possessed more vanity it is possible he might have read it aright, but vanity with him was so small a quantity as to be almost negligible.
Again the woman held out her hand.
"The tide will not wait. I must hurry ashore." Then she smiled. "I must go, too, while the courage your words have momentarily inspired remains. My father will join you immediately. Good-bye and good——"
"You do not travel with us?"
Ruxton's enquiry was frankly disappointed. The other shook her beautiful head.
"No woman may venture where you are going. No woman has ever set foot there. I know it all, as you will understand later, but—no, I return with the launch. The tide will just serve us. Good-bye and good luck."
Ruxton was left listening to the sound of her footsteps mounting the companionway. Then, as he heard the door of the conning-tower above close with a slam, he turned about and sought one of the luxurious sofas with which the saloon was furnished.
As he sat he swayed gently to the motion of the vessel, and for the first time became aware of the automatic change to artificial light in the room. He knew at once that the vessel was returning once more to those depths whence he had witnessed it emerge. He gazed about him speculatively. The lights were carefully placed and diffused to prevent the trying nature of a constant artificial glare.
He became aware of the splendid appointments of the saloon, which was a fine example of the marine architect's handicraft. The apartment itself was some twenty feet wide, and he judged it to occupy most of the vessel's beam. It was probably a similar length. The carpet on which his feet rested was a rich Turkey. Nor were the rest of the furnishings essentially of the character of a ship's cabin. True, there was a centre dining-table bolted to the deck, and the accompanying swinging chairs, but there was a full grand piano of German make. There were several comfortably upholstered lounges. There was exquisite plastic panelling of warm, harmonious tints on the upper parts of the walls and the ceilings, while the lower walls were clad in polished carved mahogany. He sought for the source of the daylight which had filled the room when he first entered, and discovered a great skylight overhead which was now covered by a metal shield on the outside, which, he concluded, must close over it automatically with the process of submerging.
But his further observations were cut short by the abrupt opening of a door in the mahogany panelling and the entrance of—Mr. Charles Smith. He came swiftly across the room, his steps giving out no sound upon the soft carpet.
"Mr. Farlow," he cried, holding out one tenacious hand in greeting, "you have done me a great honor, sir. You have done me an inestimable service in coming. I can—only thank you."
But Ruxton was less attentive to his words than to the man. There was a change in him. A subtle change. He was no longer the enthusiastic inventor, almost slavishly striving to enlist sympathy for his invention. There was something about him which suggested command—even an atmosphere of the autocrat. Perhaps it was that here he was in his own natural element—the element which he had himself created. Perhaps——
But he left it at that. It was useless to speculate further. He still experienced the sense of trust and liking which had been inspired at their first meeting by the noble forehead and the gentle, luminous eyes, so like, yet so unlike, those other eyes which so largely filled his thoughts.
He willingly responded to the extended hand. And the man seemed to expect no reply, for he went on at once——
"I was in my laboratory when you came aboard. Now I am entirely at your service."
"Good." Ruxton nodded. "I feel there must be a lot of talk between us—without delay."
The inventor looked at his watch. Then he pointed at the lounge from which Ruxton had risen, and seated himself in one of the swivel chairs at the dining-table.
"We have nearly two hours before supper is served. May I send for some refreshment for you?"
Ruxton dropped into the seat behind him.
"Thanks, no," he declined, "I dined early—purposely. All I am anxious for now is—explanation."
The manner in which his eyelids cut flatly across the upper part of the pupils of his dark eyes gave his gaze a keenly penetrating quality. He wanted explanation, full and exhaustive explanation. Warnings, and mere intangible suggestions, no longer carried weight. He must know the whole thing which the future had to reveal to him.
The white-haired man seemed lost in thought. Again Ruxton noted a change. The lean face and gentle eyes yielded to something very like an expression of dejection. It was almost as if the man shrank from the explanations demanded of him, while yet he knew they must be made.
At length he raised his eyes and regarded his guest with an almost pathetic smile.
"Explain? Ah, yes. I must explain everything now." He sighed. "Where—where shall I begin?" He crossed his long legs and strove to settle himself more comfortably in his chair, while Ruxton waited without a sign.
"It is hard to explain—all," he said, after a brief pause. "But I know it must be. Mr. Farlow, can you imagine what it means when a man who has always regarded his honor and his country's honor before all things in the world suddenly finds himself called upon to confess that his country's honor has been outraged by his country, and his own honor has been outraged by himself? If you can, then perhaps you will understand my position when explanation is demanded of me."
Ruxton averted the steady regard of his eyes. He did not desire to witness this man's pain.
"I think I know," he said. Then quite abruptly he changed from the English language to German, which he spoke with the perfect accent of a man educated in Frankfurt. "But it may save you much if you begin by telling me your real name. The name you are known by in—Germany."
A pair of simple, startled eyes gazed back into his.
"Has—Vita—told you?" he demanded.
Ruxton shook his head.
"Then how did you know?"
"Does it matter? I desire to make it easier for you."
For a few moments neither spoke. The artificial light in the room had merged once more into daylight. There was again the sound of the opening and shutting of iron doors on deck above them. There were also the harsh tones of orders being given.
Ruxton knew that it was the return of the launch which had conveyed this man's daughter ashore, and that it was being taken on board and stowed within the parent craft. Presently the sounds died away. Once more the light in the saloon became artificial, and the silent throb of engines made themselves felt. The journey had begun.
"Well?"
Ruxton had now given himself entirely to the use of the German language.
The inventor cleared his throat
"My name is Stanislaus. Stanislaus, Prince von Hertzwohl."
Ruxton Farlow did not move a muscle. There was not the quiver of an eyelid, nor one detail of change of expression. Yet he was not unmoved at the mention of the man's real name. Although he had half expected it, it came with something very like a shock.
Stanislaus von Hertzwohl! Did he not know it? Did not the whole wide world know it? Was it not the one name, out of all the great German names associated with the war, which was anathematized more surely even than that of the Kaiser himself?
Stanislaus von Hertzwohl! The man who had perfected the German submarine. The man who had made possible the hideous slaughter of innocent victims upon the high seas. The man at whose door was laid the responsibility for that inhuman massacre—the sinking of theLusitania. The man whom the world believed was the father of every diabolical engine of slaughter devised to combat his country's enemies.
"Of course, I know the name," he said simply. "Everybody knows it."
His reply seemed to fire the powder train of the Prince's passionate emotion.
"Ach!" he cried, with a desperately helpless gesture of expressive hands. "That is it. Everybody! Everybody knows it! They know the name, but they do not know the truth."
Then, in a moment, the fire of his emotion seemed to die out.
"Mr. Farlow, I want you to know that truth," he went on calmly. "Will you listen to it now? Will you listen to it with an open mind, or—or have you already sat in judgment, and, with the rest of an unthinking, unreasoning world, condemned me?"
Ruxton's thoughts were pacing rapidly with his feelings. They had travelled swiftly back to that moonlit night upon the Yorkshire cliffs. To him had come the woman again, so fair, so radiant in her perfect womanhood, so passionate in her horror of the tragedy of the world war. These things had been beyond all doubt in their sincerity and truth. She was this man's daughter. She was loyally supporting her father now. Then his mind passed on to the scene in the library at Dorby Towers. It had been his work for years to deal with people whose superficial presentment was only calculated to cloak real purpose. He had read these two people out of his experience.
"Judgment is only for those who possess all the facts," he observed quietly. "Will you continue?"
The decision of his attitude seemed to inspire the white-haired man so patiently awaiting his reply. He crossed his legs, and, drawing up one well-shod foot, nursed its ankle in his clasped hands. He was leaning forward full of an anxious, nervous expression of attitude. It almost seemed as if his guest's judgment were to him a last straw of hope. The noble forehead was a-dew with moisture. His bushy eyebrows were sharply drawn in a great effort of concentration. His eyes, so widely simple, usually so expressive of childhood's innocence, were now full of a suffering that was almost overwhelming.
"If I had been guilty of a fraction of that of which the world accuses me could I have dared, or cared, to approach you with my latest invention, and—the other proposals? Keep that question in your mind while I talk. It is so easy to condemn, and, having condemned, reversal of judgment is well-nigh impossible. If I am guilty it is only of a patriot's devotion to the country to whichI believedI owed allegiance. That, and an even greater devotion to the problems of making possible those things which seemed impossible. In not one of the problems of invention have I ever possessed a motive other than that which has inspired every engineer engaged upon naval armaments in every other country. Never in my life have I devised any weapon for the army other than the monster siege mortar. The liquid fire, the gases, the dozen and one contrivances for slaughter have found their inception in other brains than mine. I state these facts simply. You must trust them, or dismiss them, as you will. I am a marine inventor solely, except for that one weapon which was legitimate enough—the siege mortar. You, who understand the nature of marine invention, must assuredly realize that one man's brain, one man's lifetime are all too brief and limited to permit a division of his powers with any hope of success."
He paused as though offering opportunity for comment, but none was forthcoming. So he went on, his body slightly swaying to and fro, his eyes assuming a passionate fire that gave to his whole aspect an atmosphere of vigorous protest.
"I am a Pole," he went on presently. "I am a Pole, born in German Poland. My parents were poor, but we claim direct descent from the ancient royal house. Now let me make my own thoughts and feelings clear to you. I was brought up under German methods, German education. I was taught, as every child within the German Empire is taught, to believe that Germany is above and before all the nations of the world, and that, in the brief life of this earth, nothing else but German national interests matter to its people. Now mark the obvious result of such a training. I make no apology. I, beginning life in my father's little engineering shop, finding myself with an abnormal capacity for invention, seeking to make for myself and family a competence—what do I do? I place whatever ability I may possess at the service of Germany. I devote myself to discovery in the one direction in which official Germany has looked since the war of 1870.
"The next step comes quickly. It came so quickly that it well-nigh overbalanced my whole sense of proportion. The problem that appealed to me was the enormous strength of fortresses being built by our neighbors against our borders. We were doing the same against theirs. It was almost a simple problem. I said that if our fortresses were stronger than theirs, and we possessed a secret weapon which could destroy theirs, then our empire was safe from invasion for all time. So it came about that I took plans of my great siege mortars to the authorities. They were considered, and the guns were ultimately made. On experiment they proved an instantaneous success, and I was at once given rank and wealth, and ordered to work on the development of the gun-power of the Navy. It was this that converted me to marine engineering. From then onwards my career became one series of triumphs—from Germany's point of view. Till now, as you know, I have been rewarded with the revival of an old Polish title, to which by birth I am entitled, and am placed—as perhaps you do not know—in supreme command of Germany's naval construction."
There was no atmosphere of triumph in the man's manner. There was no victorious inspiration in the tones of his voice. With each word which announced the progress of his triumph an almost painful dejection seemed to settle more and more heavily upon him.
Still Ruxton refrained from comment. He knew that the vital things had yet to be told. Nor had he any desire to break up the man's train of thought. There still remained the tragedy of triumph which this man's life concealed.
The man's voice came again in level tones which had lost all light and shade. He spoke like one utterly weary in mind, heart, and body.
"If I had only known," he said, with a dreary shake of his snow-white head. "But," he added with a shrug, "I did not know. I was blinded by success, and a passionate devotion to my work." He drew a deep breath. "But I knew later. Oh, yes. I knew. The greatest triumph and the greatest disaster of my life was when I converted the paltry little coast defence submarines into the ocean-going pirates they afterwards became. But it was not until Germany declared a submarine blockade of these shores that I knew what I had done. Up to that time I had been a—German patriot. From that moment I became a simple, heart-broken human being. My legitimate engines of war had been turned against the innocent lives of a defenceless people, and when the massacre of fifteen hundred souls took place with the sinking of theLusitaniaI think for the time I became demented."
He was breathing hard. His face had become almost stony in its expression. It was the face of a man who for the time is beyond all further feeling. Quite abruptly, however, he released his hold upon his foot, and ran his long fingers through his shock of white hair.
"Ach! How willingly would I have undone all I had done. I tried to resign on various pleas. Health!" He laughed, a hollow, mocking laugh. "As well try to struggle free from the strangling rope of the hangman with hands tied. To my horror I found that I belonged body and soul to Germany, and my rank and wealth was the price the country had paid for my brains. Oh, yes, I was no honored patriot serving my country. I was its bond slave, the slave of Prussian militarism. And to the end of my days that slave I must remain.
"Need I tell you of all the suffering I have since endured? No, I think not. No repentant murderer could have suffered more for his crimes than I have done. I have striven, by every possible argument, to assure myself that mine was not the blame, but no conviction has resulted. The world cannot blame more cruelly than I do myself, and yet—I am innocent of all intent.
"Throughout all the struggle I have had with my own soul no glimmer of light reached me until my daughter came to my rescue. And I think it was her woman's wit, supported by her own brave heart, which has saved me. She, in her great pity and love of humanity, started a fresh thought in the poor brain with which Providence endowed me. It surely was only a woman's mind could have conceived so simple a solution to my trouble. It was all done in one brief sentence. She said, 'The brain that can invent to destroy can invent to save.' And from that moment hope came to me."
He leant forward urgently. The veins at his temples stood out with the mental effort of the moment.
"Need I detail the result. I came to you as the only possible person to help on the work. You were selected after careful thought. I have warned you of the threat hanging over your country. Now I will show you the engines of destruction which I have been forced to perfect to complete the execution of that threat. But I have already shown you my submersible. You are now on board the constructed vessel, the development and adoption of which is the only antidote to the devilish plans of the country to which I belong, plans which are staggering in their possibilities. They are so simple, yet so vast and terrible when made against England. Listen: Germany has abandoned all other naval construction in favor of my new boat—the Submersible Dreadnought. Do you realize the type? It is a heavily armored vessel with the gun-power of the surface dreadnought, and its speed, but with all the attributes of the submarine. A fleet of nominally three hundred is being constructed. It will be larger by far. In a few years it will be possible to ring your country round with these lurking machines, each of which will be capable of engaging successfully any surface war vessel ever built, while its submarine attributes will render it practically immune from any combination of force opposed to it. Do you see? Never again will England, when at war with Germany, be able to transport her armies abroad. Never again will she be able to feed her millions of people through overseas channels. Henceforth she will be driven to peace under any conditions and her mastery of the seas will pass from her forever."
Ruxton stirred in his seat. He shifted his position. The man's words had sunk deeply.
"The submersible mercantile marine is certainly the obvious retort," he said reflectively. Then he added as an afterthought, "Temporarily."
"Yes. Temporarily."
Neither spoke again for some moments. Both were thinking ahead, much further on than the immediate future.
"And after the submersible dreadnought?" Ruxton's question was not addressed to the inventor, but it was answered by him.
"Who can tell? One of these two countries must go under."
"Yes."
Again came a prolonged silence. Again Ruxton shifted his position. Then at last he spoke.
"And you will show me these things. The risk will be stupendous—for you."
Prince Stanislaus laughed without a shadow of mirth.
"For me it is just a matter of life and death. Life has few attractions for me now. For you? My power is sufficient to safeguard you. Shall I show you how?"
Ruxton nodded. His penetrating gaze was again fixed upon the almost cadaverous features with their snow-white crown and noble forehead.
"Yes," he said.
Prince Stanislaus began at once. And talk went on between them for many minutes. For the most part Ruxton listened, as was his way, and only occasionally interpolated a shrewd, incisive question. His dark, penetrating eyes were watchful and studying. And no change of expression in the other was lost upon him.
Slowly within him there grew a wide admiration for the mentality and courage in this strangely simple creature. He read him down to the remotest depths of his honest soul. Wherever Prince Stanislaus's devotion to his life's work had led him, there was no shadow of doubt left in the Englishman's mind as to his present sincerity and honesty of purpose.
When the last detail of the plan had been explained Ruxton stood up.
"The judgment of the world is rarely inspired by justice," he said. "I thank you, and will gladly place myself under your guidance. Since the opportunity of discovering the secrets of Kiel and Cuxhaven has been vouchsafed to me I should be far less than the patriot I desire to be did I shirk the risks. My duty is quite plain."
The relief and satisfaction his words inspired in the other were obvious.
"I thank you," he said earnestly. "You have helped me to that peace which I have long sought and I had come to believe could never again be mine in this life. But——"
"But?"
The man was smiling.
"But we do not go to either Kiel or Cuxhaven."
Ruxton was startled.
"Where then?" he demanded shortly.
"To the Baltic. Mr. Farlow, you have no idea of the subtlety of the people with whom we are dealing. All eyes of the world are on Cuxhaven and Kiel. Every vulture of the foreign secret services is hovering over those places, and the forges and foundries are working to deceive them. But the real work and preparations I speak of are not being made in Germany at all. We go to the Baltic, to the island of Borga, which is off the coast of Sweden. And there we shall find under German administration a naval 'Krupps,' and the greatest arsenal in the whole world."
A grey, northern day devoid of all sunshine; a forbidding, rock-bound coast lost in a depressing mist; a flat, oily sea, as threatening to the mariner as the mounting hillocks of storm-swept water; a dull sense of hopelessness prevailing upon the still air. All these things marked the approach to Borga; for Nature was in a repellent mood, a thing of repugnance, of distrust and fear.
A long, low craft was approaching the gaping jaws which marked the entrance to the heart of the island, somewhere away in the distance, lost in the grey mists which seemed to envelop the whole land.
The deck was narrow, and guarded by a simple surrounding of low rails. Amidships was a curious construction which was at once the support of the periscope, the conning-tower, and the entrance to the interior of the vessel. Dotted about the deck were several sealed hatchways, and the sheen of glassed skylights. The whole thing was colored to match the surrounding grey-green waters.
Two uniformed figures were standing for'ard in the bows. One of them was beating the air with twin flags, one in each hand. The other stood by contemplating the book in his hand, and at intervals scanning the repellent shore through a pair of binoculars.
Presently the signaller spoke.
"One, six, four, seven, nine, three, two," he said, reciting the combination of numerals in German with the certainty of familiarity.
"One, six, four, seven, nine, three, two, it is," replied the observer, in a similar, ill-spoken tongue. "That's 'proceed,'" he added, referring to his book.
Forthwith the signaller produced a pocket telephone connected with the conning-tower by a long insulated "flex," and spoke over it. A moment later the throb of engines made itself felt, and, in response, the spume broke on the vessel's cut-water, and left a frothing wake astern.
The vessel passed the mist-hooded granite headlands. It left them behind, and itself became engulfed in the grey threat lying between the overshadowing heights towering upwards nearly five hundred feet towards the leaden sky.
The two men on deck gave no heed to their immediate surroundings. They were men of the sea, hard and unimaginative. They were concerned only with the safety of the vessel under them. They would drive her into the very gates of Hell, if such were their orders. But they would avoid, with all their skill, the pitfalls by the way. They knew that the secrets of this gloomy abode were many, as many perhaps as those of the very Hades they would have been willing enough to face. They knew, too, that those secrets, just as the secrets of the other place, were calculated to destroy them if they diverged one iota from the laws which governed the place. So they worked exactly, and took no chances.
The channel quickly began to narrow. The vast cliffs drew in upon them in their overpowering might. The barren shores were visible to the naked eye, and the white line of heavy surf boomed and boomed again in its incessant attack upon the grim walls. Higher up small patches of pine trees clung desperately to insecure root-holds, like the intrepid Alpini seeking to scale impossible heights.
A few minutes passed and a boat, a small petrol-driven vessel, like some cockle-shell amidst its tremendous surroundings, shot out from the shore and raced towards them. It had a high, protected prow, and its great speed threw up a pair of huge white wings of water till it had something of the appearance of an enraged swan charging to the attack of an enemy. Again the signaller spoke over his telephone, and the vessel slowed down, and finally hove-to.
The patrol boat drew alongside. Two men, amidships, in oilskins, held a brief conversation with those on board the intruder. Then their vessel passed ahead, and the bigger craft was left to amble leisurely along in its wake.
The cliffs had closed down till less than half a mile of water divided them. The narrow strip of leaden sky above looked pinched between them. For a mile and more ahead there was no change. The narrow passage, with its racing tide, was full of hidden dangers, not the least amongst which being a crowded mine-field which lined either side of the channel.
As the journey proceeded the gloom increased. Added to the natural mists the atmosphere took on a yellow tint, which suggested an overhanging pall of smoke. There was no joy in the aspect anywhere.
The end of the passage came at last, and the pilot boat dropped astern. Its work was finished, and it raced back to its watching-post.
Now a complete change came over the scene. But it was scarcely a change for the better. It was only that Nature, having done her worst, left the rest in the safe hands of human ingenuity.
The frowning cliffs abandoned their threat. They ended as abruptly as they had arisen out of the sea. They fell back on either hand, carrying the shore with them, and merged into a mist-crowned hinterland of dark woods and wide ravines, with a wide-stretching foreshore, upon which was built a great city, entirely surrounding what had developed into a miniature, landlocked sea.
Nature had certainly left her incomplete effort in capable hands. Whatever beauty a brilliant sunshine, accompanied by a smart breeze, might have discovered upon the inhospitable shores of Borga in their pristine state, man's hand had contrived to destroy it. The whole prospect was sordid, uncouth, and suggested something of a nether world of lugubrious fancy. All that could be said for it was the suggestion of feverish industry on every hand. The buildings looked all unfinished, yet they were in full work under a great strain of pressure. Borga had been built in a hurry, and all connected with it suggested only haste and industry.
There were no public buildings of classic model. There were no roads and avenues beautified by Nature's decorations. Just alleys and thoroughfares there were, and only sufficiently paved for the needs of the work in hand. The quays and docks were solid—only. The great machine shops, staring-eyed and baldly angular, suggested only the barest necessity. And though their hundreds of floors sheltered thousands of human workers, and acres of elaborate machinery, not even a cornice, or coping, or variation of brickwork had been permitted to make sightly a structure purely for utilitarian purposes. The slipways at the water's edge, and the gaunt steel skeletons they contained, were merely slipways, without other pretensions. A thousand smokestacks belched out of their fetid bowels an endless flow of yellow, sulphurous smoke upon an already overladen atmosphere. They stood up like the teeth of a broken comb, and added to the sordidness of the picture.
A faint relief might have been found for the primitive mind in the numberless blast furnaces to be detected on almost every hand by their shooting tongues of flame. Like all else in Borga they never ceased from their efforts. Theirs it was to give birth to an everlasting stream of molten metal with which to fill the crudely-wrought sand moulds for the containing of pig-iron. The rolling mills, too, might have been not without effect. Those cavernous worlds of incessant clamor rolled the hours and days away, and took no count but of the output from their soulless wombs. The homes of the deep-noted steam hammers, and the fierce puddling furnaces, where men, bare to the skin except for a loin-cloth, with greased bodies, endure under showers of flying sparks and a heat which no other living creature would face. These sights were perhaps not without inspiration. But the sordidness of it all, its crudity, its suggestion of hideous life were on every hand; in the shrieking locomotives, with their tails of laden, protesting trucks; in the beer-drinking booths; in the vast heaps of rubbish and waste lying about in every direction; even to the almost bestial type of man whose brain and muscle made such a waste of industry possible.
What Nature had left unfinished, man had surely completed for her. Borga was repellent. Its life was ugly. But ugliest of all was its purpose.
Essen had been the greatest arsenal of all time. But since the birth and maturity of Borga it had become as a village compared to a capital city. Borga was the mechanical soul of an empire. It was the iron heart of an armored giant, upon which had been wantonly lavished all the mentality and spiritual force of a nation bankrupt in every other human feeling.
The incoming vessel moved swiftly. Ahead lay a grey breakwater which formed one wall of a small harbor. An open channel clear of all shipping indicated its purpose. It was obviously the official landing-place. However, if the channel remained clear it was lined on either side by a swarm of naval craft, much of which was still in the hands of artificers; for here, no less than ashore, the din of construction was going on and the busy hive remained true to its purpose.
The men on deck remained indifferent to their surroundings. Familiarity left them free to give undivided attention to their work. So the boat glided silently in between the pierheads, and, in five minutes, was lying against the landing-stage with a gangway run aboard.
Two men emerged from the conning-tower and stepped ashore, where a small group of uniformed officers were waiting to receive them. Prince Stanislaus von Hertzwohl led the way, followed by a younger man, whose face was full of a keen intelligence, while his dark eyes were those of a dreamer. Both were dressed in the uniform of German naval officers, a uniform which particularly seemed to suit the younger man's fair hair.
But the Prince in Borga was a different man from the inventor displaying his models. Here he was an autocrat—an all-powerful, high officer in the work of the place. Therefore, with a cold acknowledgment of the salute of the junior officers, he passed them by and stepped up to a man of elevated military rank, who, in the haughty aloofness of his position, was standing well apart from the others.
The Prince addressed him with a cold sort of familiarity.
"Ha, Von Salzinger," he cried, "but you are a troublesome people here. You give us no peace. We are called to straighten out the muddles of Borga when our time can be ill spared from our workshops. Let me present my nephew, who is responsible for this damnation light. Herr Leder von Bersac—the military governor of Borga, Captain-General von Salzinger."
The two men acknowledged the presentation, and their eyes met in a steady, keen regard. Then the Prince went on—
"What is it, this light? Have your engineers no thoughts in their heads but beer, or is it that they, like the asses, have grown long ears? Come, we will go at once. You can dismiss your ceremonial," he went on, indicating the group of officers. "I have no time for that. I am an engineer, as is my nephew. Besides, I must leave here within the hour. I must be in Berlin within two days and return to my works first. So——"
"Certainly, Excellency," replied the Captain-General, unbending before the man whom he believed through his genius to be the most powerful influence in the country at the moment. "But I think the fault is not with us—this time. No doubt Herr von Bersac will be able to set the matter right. But an hour is short."
"Ach, so," cried the Prince, with irritation. "Then do not delay. Lead us to the—place."
Herr von Bersac, watching the scene with his dreamy eyes, noted the attitude of the two men towards each other. His uncle's manner was something of a surprise to him. Nor could he help but realize the other's almost slavish deference, as, in response to the older man's order, he hastily moved off shorewards.
The Governor was a typical Teuton. The broad, square back of his head surmounted a thick, fleshy neck. His blue eyes were deeply set in puffy sockets. His cheeks were full, and the chin, below his bristling moustache, was square and strong. His whole appearance, in his brilliant uniform, was of cubist inspiration, and, in spite of his high rank, and the suggestion of grey about the temples of his close-cropped head, he could not have been more than midway between thirty and forty. These things Herr von Bersac noted with almost unnecessary interest in spite of his abstracted air.
But Herr von Bersac had not had a monopoly of observation. While the Prince had been talking the military governor's small, quick eyes had not been idle. He had taken the nephew's measure to the last inch of his great height. Such observation was his habit as well as his duty. His position in the world's greatest secret arsenal demanded that every visitor must be regarded as a possible enemy until a due examination of his credentials proved him otherwise.
The Prince talked as they made their way to an execrable road by crossing a narrow-gauge railway. They skirted piles of debris almost as high as some of the adjoining buildings. And the general impression left was one of carelessness for anything but the work going on.
"This place is the worst constructed in the world," he declared, as he stubbed a toe against a pile of broken concrete. "There is no system in it. Where is the system for which we Germans are noted? It is gone, with many other things, since the war. We think so hard for the downfall of our enemies that we have no time for all that system which has made our people the greatest in the world. Ach! I hate Borga. I hate it more every time I make my visit."
Von Salzinger laughed in his heavy way.
"Ah, Excellency," he said, "the war has taught us many things. We thought we knew it all. Through that very system which was so great we wasted much money and many years, for our enemies achieved almost all which we had in less than two years. Now we work against time. Our object now is no longer system, but—result."
"I am glad," observed the Prince with some acerbity. "You will understand then why I can give you only an hour."
"Yes, Excellency," deferred the other.
He had no desire to add to his visitor's obvious ill-humor. And there were other reasons for his attitude than the mere fear of his power. He desired this man's personal favor. When war broke out in 1914, before the Prince had risen to his present power, he, Von Salzinger, had been brought into contact with his daughter Valita von Hertzwohl in the work of the Secret Service. It had fallen to his lot to endeavor to utilize her in his country's service. That his efforts had failed was not his only disaster, for, failing to enlist her coöperation, he had achieved her displeasure with himself. And her displeasure had disturbed him more than the other. He had fallen a victim to her charms in a manner which made her displeasure something of a tragedy to his vanity. But he was as vain as he was persevering, and with him effort was a continuous process, and not spasmodic.
The Prince hurried him through the wilderness of industry, and the haughty military governor lost much of his dignity in the scurry, and in his effort to pay deferential attention to his visitor's incessant complaint. An overwhelming clanging of machinery, intensified by the dull thunderous boom of adjacent steam hammers, and the machine-gun rattle of the riveting hammers, made talk almost impossible.
Herr von Bersac no longer displayed the least interest in his companions. Since he had dropped behind them, and was safe from Von Salzinger's observation, the dreaming had passed out of his dark eyes. They were alight with a keen interest, an interest almost excited, as the wonders of the place revealed themselves to him. But the works and their busy life had less effect than other things. His whole mind seemed to be absorbed in the direction of the water, and the numberless naval craft lying at their moorings. And out of all these his searching eyes selected one type, a type he could not miss, a type which seemed to be prevailing.
One of them lay so near inshore that he could observe its every detail of outward construction. It was a curious, ugly vessel of strangely vicious type. He recognized it at once as of the submersible pattern of the vessel he had arrived at Borga in. But it was so huge. It was heavily armored, as it lay there in light draught, high out of water, and on its deck, in place of the simple conning-tower and surmounting periscope, there was a central armored turret, while, fore and aft of this, two other turrets bristled, each with a pair of 12-inch guns. He had no time for a closer inspection as he was hurried along, but he made a mental note that the vessel was a submarine dreadnought, and that there were nearly fifty other such vessels lying about at their moorings.
He seemed fearful of concentrating his observation too long in any one direction. A furtive backward glance from the Governor promptly diverted his attention. It almost seemed that he had no desire to invite Captain-General von Salzinger's regard. No doubt he felt that, though his uncle's nephew, he was still only admitted to Borga on sufferance.
Finally they approached a high-walled enclosure with closed gates, and a line of sentries guarding its entrance. Immediately he became absorbed in the German characters of the large printed notice on the gates. The notice was to the effect that all entrance to this place without a Governor's permit was "verboten."
He became alert and watchful. Doubtless being the engineer responsible for the success of the new U-rays lamp he felt that he must no longer permit his interest to wander. He watched the square figure of the military governor as he took the sentry's salute. He observed the junior officer who promptly threw open one of the massive gates. Then his whole attention became absorbed in what he beheld as, with his companion, he passed within the enclosure.
It was a large dock. And moored at each of its three sides was a submarine dreadnought of even greater dimensions than the one he had seen mounting 12-inch guns.
The Prince turned to him.
"This, my Leder, is the place where we deal with the things, the secret of which the world will never know, but the effects of which one day our enemies will learn to dread."
He laughed with the satisfaction of anticipated triumph. Then, as Leder von Bersac grunted out some unintelligible acquiescence, he turned to the military governor with a shrug.
"Ach, what will you?" he cried, in apparent disgust. "He has no delight, no appreciation for these things. He will think all day. He will work in his light-rooms till he is nearly blind. All for the destruction of our enemies. But joy? He does not know it. If you tell him his work has slain a million of the enemy he will say he can make it kill more. Himmel! Such joy!"
Ludwig von Salzinger surveyed this enthusiastic product with curious eyes. But he offered no comment, and the Prince hurried towards the gangway, and led the way aboard the nearest vessel.
At the steel doorway of the armored conning-tower he paused. His whole manner abruptly changed to one of definite command.
"If there should be a defect we will have the light unshipped, and take it back with us, Leder," he said decidedly. "You cannot work in the pandemonium of Borga. It is only fit for the Captain-General's artillerymen, who have ears of leather and brains of mud." Then he turned upon Von Salzinger in a manner that permitted no doubt of his purpose. "You doubtless have more pressing duties, Herr Captain-General. Please do not consider us. Our work is technical, and will have but little interest for you. Besides, my dear Leder may have to examine those secrets of the U-rays which even your chief engineer is not admitted to. I thank you for conducting us hither. You will leave word for our safe departure at the gates."
His dismissal came as a shock to Von Salzinger. But more than anything his vanity was shocked. To feel that this man had the power to dismiss him, here in Borga, as he, Von Salzinger, might dismiss one of his junior officers, was infinitely galling. But even more intensely galling was the thought that this boor of a nephew could calmly move about in Borga, penetrate its most secret workshops, and probe the secrets which lay therein, while he—he, the military governor—was ordered about his business.
There was no help for it. Prince von Hertzwohl had given the order, and he must obey as though the order had issued from the lips of the All High War Lord. He bowed a short, square, resentful bow and stood aside to allow Von Bersac to enter the conning-tower. But the glance which followed the tall athletic form of the engineer was no friendly one.
He must obey orders. Well, so must everybody who entered Borga—unless they were of higher rank than the military governor. This young man could at least be put to the indignity of the inquisitorial process of his officials. And he knew how unpleasant their efforts could be made. He promised himself this trifling satisfaction, at least—when the Prince chanced to be out of the way. It was certainly his duty that this young man should go through the customary process which all visitors at Borga were submitted to.
He left the deck of the dreadnought as the Prince and hisprotégévanished down the steel companionway, and passed out of the docks. Nor did he neglect to give the necessary orders for his visitors' departure. After that, however, he went straight to his headquarters.
Meanwhile the Prince, without the least hesitation, led his companion along the steel passages, past the maze of machinery which formed the bowels of the dreadnought. At the extreme peak of the vessel was situated the light-room of the U-rays, where they found four engineers at work.
The men saluted and stood by when they realized the identity of their visitors, and the work of examining the mechanism of the wonderful new submarine light at once began.
Von Bersac took small enough part in it. The Prince at once became the engineer. The skill and deftness, and the knowledge he displayed were incomparable. He talked the whole time he was examining, finding fault here, praising there, and all his talk was addressed to his nephew as though he were the final authority. Von Bersac remained the unenthusiastic creature he had appeared before Von Salzinger, and kept to his attitude of disjointed grunts. But his eyes were alert and apparently comprehending, and when, in imitation of the other, he examined any detail, there was a disarming conviction about all his movements. Finally they tested the light, and, after a number of tests, the Prince threw up his hands in a gesture of almost ludicrous despair.
"Ach, Leder," he cried, "it is not the fault of these good fellows. It is yours—yours and mine. It is a month's delay at least, is it not so?"
Von Bersac silently acquiesced.
"A month of most valuable time," the Prince went on. "See here," he cried, and went off into a world of technicalities beyond even the comprehension of the skilled engineers present. "It is to be regretted," he finished up despairingly. "It must be taken down, and sent back to us. But these, these,"—he laid his hands on two portions of the delicate mechanism enclosed in polished brass cylinders, through which the insulated cables passed—"we will take these with us. They can be trusted in no other hands." He turned to the chief engineer. "Take these out without delay. Herr von Bersac will wait for them, and convey them to my ship. There will be no difficulty. Sever the cables here, and here," he added, indicating spots which the engineer chalked where he was to cut them. "Do not let any one handle them when they are down, Leder. Bring them yourself."
The tall figure of the Prince departed, and Leder von Bersac remained while the engineers carried out the work.
It was quite simple. There was no difficulty. The Prince had made certain of this before he left his nephew to wait for the two cylinders. But the men worked with great care, for they knew that in those two simple brass casings lay the vital secrets which were to transform the submarine dreadnoughts from lumbering, groping sea monsters into live, active, vicious creatures of offense.