A small group of people stood surveying the wreck of one of the great construction docks in the Dorby yards. Prominent among them were Sir Andrew Farlow and his son. They were standing beside a naval officer of considerable rank. A number of naval uniforms stood out from the rest of the civilians; but these were of lesser degree.
The sky was heavily overcast. A light, penetrating drizzle of rain was falling. Somehow these things seemed to add to the sense of destruction prevailing.
The corrugated iron roof—thousands of square feet of it—was lying tumbled and torn upon a tangle of fallen steel girders. Great slabs of ferro-concrete walls loomed grey amidst the chaos. Steel stanchions of great height and strength, used to support the roofing, lay about, bent or broken, like so much lead piping. The mass of wreckage was stupendous, and through it all, and beyond it, towards the water's edge, the rigid steel ribs of twin vessels stood up defiantly, as though indifferent to the fierce upheaval which had wrecked their cradles.
Ruxton pointed at the latter.
"They've wrecked everything but what they set out to wreck."
He had voiced a general thought. There was no answer to his comment. The naval commander displayed his feelings in the almost childlike regret in his eyes. The wrecking of anything in the shape of sea craft smote him to the heart. It was no question of values to him. The sea and all that belonged to it were the precious things of life to him. Sir Andrew frowned down upon the scene. His strong Yorkshire features were sternly set.
"It means two weeks' delay. That is all." Sir Andrew's words were the outcome of his resolve.
"All of that," said the commander. "It's curious," he reflected. "It suggests inexperience or—great hurry. What of the offices?"
"You mean the drawing office?" Sir Andrew's lips set grimly as he glanced in Ruxton's direction.
"Burnt to a cinder and scattered to the four winds." Ruxton emitted a sound like a laugh deprived of all mirth.
"The drawings?" The commander's eyes were gravely enquiring.
"Not a drawing or tracing saved. Not a single working plan. Complete. Oh, yes, complete. But——"
"But?" The concern had deepened in the officer's eyes.
Ruxton shrugged.
"We have duplicates and triplicates of everything, besides the originals. They must take us for babes or—imbeciles."
The officer was relieved. He even smiled.
"A good many do that. Well, they have told us their intentions pretty plainly. They'll get no second opportunity unless they've a staff of miracle workers. Shall you be present at the enquiry this afternoon, Sir Andrew?"
Sir Andrew signified assent. Then he asked:
"What about the inquest?"
"To-morrow morning," one of his own staff informed him.
"Four deaths. Seven injured." It was the officer again who spoke. "Two of them my men. The others operatives. One of the injured is believed to be a foreigner. If he is fit to give evidence it may be interesting."
The talk ceased. There was nothing more to be said. The wrecking was complete. No further talk could serve them.
Presently Sir Andrew moved away. His resentment outweighed his regrets. Ruxton followed him. He displayed no emotion at the ruin which had been caused. The loss of life he endeavored to thrust out of his mind. Nor was it difficult, for, in spite of the seriousness of the calamity, it was incomparable with the calamity which had come near to breaking his heart.
The officer remained where he was. His duty lay there in the work under his guardianship. He knew well enough he was not likely to escape the official verdict of "slackness."
Ruxton followed his father into the waiting car. In a moment they were threading their way through a labyrinth of unkempt buildings, all of which concealed a teeming activity and laboring life. The lanes were narrow, winding and unpaved. The car was forever crossing and recrossing the metal track of a light railway amongst strings of trucks and snorting locomotives. On every hand came the din of moving machinery. Then frequently they were held up by slow-moving horse vehicles.
The yards at Dorby were in full work. In spite of the wrecking, work went on just the same. There was no general dislocation. The phenomenon was typical of the hard-headed northern worker, and the sureness of the steady control of the great enterprise. Every unit of that great army of workers went through the daily routine with one eye upon the time-sheet, and the other upon the privileges which his union bestowed upon him. For the rest, his personal concerns only began when the steam siren sounded the completion of his day's work.
In the privacy of the offices, just within the gates of the yards, Ruxton and his father were at liberty to talk more freely. Yet for some minutes after their arrival their inclination kept them silent. Each was thinking on the lines which appealed most. Ruxton was not thinking of Dorby at all.
Sir Andrew was standing squarely upon the skin rug, with his back to the fire. More than ever he assumed the likeness to a pictorial John Bull. Even the somewhat old-fashioned morning-coat he wore added to the resemblance. Ruxton had flung himself into a large easy-chair. The room was lofty and luxurious. Nor was its fashion extremely modern. It savored of mid-Victorian days, when luxury in the office of a commercial magnate was first brought to its perfection.
The rain had increased, and, beyond the lofty windows, it was now steadily teeming. Sir Andrew was the first to speak.
"I'm trying to fathom the significance of it," he said, a little helplessly.
Ruxton's dark eyes withdrew from the window.
"Don't," he said. Then he added: "It's not worth it."
His father's shrewd eyes regarded him speculatively.
"Not worth it? How?"
"Why, because you will discover it, and it will have been trouble for nothing."
"I don't understand."
"It is simple. There is only one meaning to it. Terror."
In spite of the old man's disturbance his eyes twinkled.
"They'll achieve precious little of that. If that's all——"
"Exactly, Dad. Purposeless destruction is a fetish of this people. Their psychology has an abnormal belief in terror. They judge everybody the same. You have seen it in a hundred ways. Except for this they are anything but fools. But in this they are almost childlike. They know they cannot stop the work in these yards. They know if they destroy a dozen sets of plans there will still be more forthcoming. They know all this, and are childishly, impotently furious. Their first thought is revenge, and then terrorizing. They think they can frighten us into abandoning the work, perhaps. I don't know. There is one thing certain: speculation on the matter is waste of your valuable efforts. Sparling is right; they have shown their hand. They will get no second chance on the same lines. They have achieved two weeks' delay. That is all they have achieved—here."
"Here?"
"Yes. I haven't had an opportunity of telling you before." Ruxton paused. A storm had gathered in his deep eyes. His fair, even brows were drawn. His father noted a sudden fullness in the veins at his temples. Then, in the midst of the affairs of the moment, he remembered his son's hurried rush to town, and its purpose.
Quite suddenly Ruxton leapt to his feet. He towered over the staunch figure of his father. His eyes had become hot and straining.
"Yes, what they have achieved here is futile. But what they have done elsewhere is—damnable," he cried, with hardly repressed fury. "I feel as if I should go mad. I've thought and thought till I can no longer think connectedly upon the matter. I am lost; utterly lost; groping like a blind man. She has gone. She's been spirited away, stolen; and God alone knows what suffering and torture she may not even now be enduring. I told you revenge and terror are the motives of these people. Their plans have fallen into our hands, and we are availing ourselves of them. Remember, the secrets we possess are the most precious of all the German Government's plans. They cannot undo that mischief, so they turn to revenge, for which they have an infinite capacity. Who are they going to be revenged upon? Us? Yes, as far as possible. Even our own lives may be threatened. But more than all they intend to hurt Von Hertzwohl and—all belonging to him. They mean to kill him, and possibly the others. But first they will use his daughter to get at him. Do you see? She will be tortured until she delivers him into their hands, and then—God knows."
He flung out his arms in a gesture of despair.
His father's eyes deepened in their anxiety. But the set of his strong mouth became firmer.
"Tell me just what has happened." The demand spoken so quietly had the effect desired.
Ruxton pulled himself together. His father watched the return of control with satisfaction.
He told the story of his journey to Wednesford calmly and quietly, without missing a detail. Sir Andrew listened closely, the seriousness of his attitude deepening with every fresh detail which pointed the certainty of foul play. At the conclusion of the story he was as gravely apprehensive as the other, and his sympathy for his boy's heart-broken condition was from the depths of his devoted heart.
"I've got the best Scotland Yard can supply working for us, and each man has been offered fabulous rewards if he can ascertain her whereabouts. So far I have no news; no hope. Dad, I love Vita so that this thing has nearly set me crazy. I tell you I must find her. I must save her from these devils, or——"
"Have you seen Von Hertzwohl?"
Ruxton started. His drawn face and straining eyes underwent a complete change at the simple enquiry from his father.
"No. I——"
"It seems to me if their object is to get at him it should not be impossible that a clue—— Besides, I sent a letter on to him, which came under cover addressed to me. That was the first thing this morning, just before you arrived. It was written in a woman's hand, and——"
"God! Why didn't you speak of it before?" The demand was almost rough. Such was the rush of blind hope that suddenly surged through the younger man's heart.
The father's eyes twinkled.
"You had told me nothing. I knew nothing of the trouble."
"Of course. I'm sorry, Dad." Ruxton's whole attitude had undergone a swift change.
Now he was all eager hope, and strung to a pitch of desire for action.
"I will go to him at once."
"Now?" The old man shook his head. "You're too reckless, boy. Think it over carefully. Remember, Dorby is full of German agents. I should suggest to-night. I should suggest you adopt the garb of a worker. Ruxton Farlow visiting a working man's abode. It would be too inviting to our—enemies."
"Dad, you're right—always right. Yes; to-night. You think it was a letter from her?"
Sir Andrew shook his head.
"I haven't an idea, boy," he said in his deliberate fashion. "How could I be expected to? The letter came, and I sent it on by hand. A perfectly trustworthy hand, under cover of a fresh address to Mr. Charles Smith. Now it's different. It seems it might be a—clue."
"Might? Of course it is. There is only one woman who would write to him. But—why not have written to me?"
The same thought had simultaneously occurred to the father, and, as it came, something of the lighter manner which had been steadily gathering died out of his shrewd eyes.
It was a little yellow brick cottage, part of a terrace of a dozen or so, in a cul-de-sac, guarded at its entrance by a beer-house on one hand, and, on the other, a general shop. The brickwork was black with years of fog and soot, and the English climate. The front of it possessed three windows and a doorway, with a step that at rare intervals was tinted with a sort of yellow ochre. The windows were curtainless, and suggested years of uncleanliness in the inhabitants.
The interior was little better. The owners of the place lived down-stairs. The two small rooms above were let to lodgers of the working class. One of the latter was employed in one of the shipyards. The other the poor housewife was doubtful about. He remained unemployed, and was a foreigner; but he paid his rent, and didn't seem to require her to do any cooking for him. Then he seemed fond of her dirty-faced children, of whom there seemed to be an endless string, who frequently invaded his quarters, and submitted him to an interminable catechism of childish enquiry.
Otherwise the tall, lean workman with the hollow cheeks and luminous eyes was left to prosecute his apparently fruitless search for work unquestioned. Mrs. Clark was far too busy with her brood of offspring to concern herself with his affairs, a small mercy vouchsafed him, and for which he was duly thankful. Mr. Charles Smith by no means courted the intimacy of his neighbors, or his fellow-lodger; at the same time, he avoided exciting any suspicion.
He had received a letter that morning. He had read it at once. It was written in German, but the address upon the outer envelope was in a bold English handwriting. After reading it he straightened up his meagre room in a preoccupied fashion. His big, foreign-looking eyes were more than usually reflective, and a curious pucker of thought had drawn his shaggy brows together. Then, as was his rule, he passed out of the house, greeting the ragged fragments of humanity, who owed—and rarely yielded—obedience to Mrs. Clark, in his friendly fashion, and set out on what appeared to be his daily pursuit of employment. He returned at noon.
He read his letter again, and sat thinking about it until he was disturbed by one of the children. Then he again set forth. Nor did he return to his abode until darkness had closed in, and the army of small children had been bestowed for the night in their various nooks and corners of the lower premises.
He lit the cheap oil lamp on his table, seated himself in the unstable old basket-chair beside his uninviting bed, and settled himself for a third perusal of his letter.
It was a long letter, and it was signed "Vita." It was written in a striking feminine hand, which moulded the spidery German characters into something unusually strong and characteristic. He displayed a mild wonder that German characters supervened the signature. But the wonder passed as he read, lost in the gravity of alarm which steadily grew in his eyes as he turned each page.
He paused during this third reading at several of the paragraphs. He reread them, as though he would penetrate the last fraction of their significance. And at each pause, at each rereading, his disquiet grew.
That letter had a grave effect upon him. So much so that he forgot time, he forgot that he had yet to go out and seek food at some ham-and-beef shop, and that he was hungry. The final paragraph of the letter perhaps affected him most of all, and gave him an unease of heart which none of the rest could have done. It was a paragraph which opened up for his scrutiny the depths of a woman's soul in the first great rush of a passionate love. He had read this with deep emotion, and a great sympathy. And as he read it he felt something of the wrong which, through him and his efforts, was being inflicted upon the woman whom it was his paternal right to cherish and protect. Then, in the last lines of this outpouring, he received the final blow which brought him a realization. It was an example of the wonderful magnanimity and self-sacrifice of a woman's love. It was the renunciation of all her hopes and yearnings in the interests of the man upon whom she had bestowed the wealth and treasure of her woman's heart.
He mechanically folded up the letter and returned it to an inner pocket. He rose with a sigh, and gazed about him uncertainly. The meaning of his sordid surroundings passed him by. His thoughts were on so many other things which filled his active faculties, leaving no room for the consideration of his own comforts. He even forgot that he had not eaten since noon. He extracted a sheet of paper from a small locked hand-grip, and set about writing a brief message—a message such as he had been asked for. He enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to Redwithy Farm in Buckinghamshire.
He had just completed his task when the stairs outside his door creaked under a heavy footfall. The next moment there was a knock at his door.
Two minutes later Ruxton Farlow, clad in workman's clothes, occupied the protesting wicker-chair, while Prince von Hertzwohl contented himself with a seat upon the unyielding bed. The oil lamp shone dully upon the table and threw into dim relief two faces, whose strength and suggestion of mentality suited ill the quality of the clothes which covered the bodies beneath them.
To Von Hertzwohl it was as though some miracle of a none too pleasant nature had been performed. In view of his letter from Vita, Ruxton Farlow was the last person he desired to see. On the other hand, he had been waiting anxiously to hear from him, or see him on the subject of the happenings at the yards, of which the whole town of Dorby had become aware.
Ruxton had his own purpose in view, but the Prince gave him no opportunity of developing it at the first excitement of the meeting.
"Tell me, Mr. Farlow. Tell me of it all," he cried, in his swift, impulsive way. "I have heard so much and know so little. I have lived through a fever since yesterday morning. I have listened to the wildest stories of conspiracies and plots. It is said, even, that your father's offices have been destroyed; that he has been injured. But I knew that was not right. You will tell me it all."
Ruxton was reluctantly forced to abandon his own purpose for the moment. He even smiled in answer to the old man's wide, eager eyes.
"They have started on us," he said, with quiet confidence. "Oh, yes, they have started. The purpose was well intentioned, but of childish inception and indifferent execution. They have delayed work for perhaps two weeks. They have become obsessed with the use of bombs, which was a disease during the war."
"But the explosions—they were terrific. I heard them here, in this bed."
"The German race can do nothing without bluster, and they seem to regard bluster as achievement. They destroyed the slipways of two of the new submersibles, with little damage to the vessels themselves. They have destroyed an office, and the working-plans therein. We have many others, and your originals are safely disposed. It is nothing. It is scarcely worth discussing."
The old man shook his head—that wonderful head—which still fascinated the Englishman. The latter noted the added intellectuality of the face since it had been clean shaven. It was a splendid face.
"No." There was an anxious light still lurking in the wide eyes of the inventor. "But it is the beginning. Only the beginning. Who knows what may happen next?"
Ruxton threw up his head. His eyes were full of a world of pain and suffering. The change had been wrought by the man's last words.
"That is it," he cried. "It is not the destruction at the yards. It is that which also they may do—which they have done. It is that which has brought me here now. I am nearly mad with anxiety and dread. I am thinking of your—daughter, sir. I can find no trace of her at her house, or elsewhere. She has gone, vanished, spirited away without a word to her—friends."
The Prince's face became a study in bewilderment. His luminous eyes looked to have grown bigger than ever. He opened his lips to speak. Then he closed them. Then he fumbled in his pocket.
"Since when has she——?"
But he was not permitted to complete his question.
"Since the day of your arrival here, sir," Ruxton cried. "I wired her a message, and it remained unanswered."
"Tell me of it." The puzzled expression remained, but there was more confidence in the Prince's manner. He was grasping his folded letter in his hand. He had remembered its contents, and the promise it had demanded.
Ruxton briefly told him of the search he had embarked on. He told of the services of Scotland Yard he had employed. And he told of the negative result of all his efforts. Then he broke out in the passionate pain of the strong soul within him. He told this father the simple story of his love. It was simple, and big, and strong. And the Prince, in the simplicity of his own soul, understood and approved.
"I know. I have understood it, guessed it—what you will. I know, and it gives me happiness." He sighed nevertheless. It seemed to Ruxton as though his sigh were a denial. The grey head was inclined. His eyes were bent upon the letter in his hand. He seemed to be considering deeply. Suddenly he raised a pair of troubled eyes to Ruxton's.
"But she is at home. She is at Redwithy. Our enemies have not laid hands upon her. She is not without her fears, but she is well, and unmolested in her home. I had this letter from her only this morning. It came through your father. It must have been written last night. So she was at Redwithy last night. See, here is the heading. It is her writing. I would know it in a thousand. There is a mistake. It must be a mistake."
Ruxton had no answer for him. That which he saw and heard now was incredible. He half reached out to take the letter, but he drew back. He was burning to read and examine that letter, but the Prince gave no sign of yielding it up; and he knew, in spite of all his anxiety, he had no right to claim such a privilege.
Perhaps Von Hertzwohl understood something of that which was passing in the younger man's mind. Perhaps the appeal to his sympathy was more than he could resist. He opened the letter. Then he folded it afresh so that the heading and the signature were alone visible. He held it out.
"Look. You know her writing. There it is—and her signature."
Ruxton leant forward eagerly. He examined the writing closely. Amazement grew in his eyes.
"Yes," he said, as he sat back in his chair. "It is hers—undoubtedly."
And he realized by the manner in which the father had displayed these things to him that it was his way of assuring him that he was not to be permitted to know the contents of the letter.
In consequence, a silence fell between them. And each knew it was a silence of restraint. Ruxton was endeavoring to discover a possible reason for the Prince's attitude, and he felt that his reticence must be attributable to Vita's wish. If it were her wish there must be some vital reason. What reason could there be unless——? Was she avoiding him purposely? Was her absence from Redwithy her own doing? Was it that now, her work completed, she wished to——? A sweat broke out upon his broad forehead, and he stirred uneasily.
Then, in the midst of his trouble, the other spoke, and his words helped to corroborate all his worst apprehension. The old man's words were gently spoken. They were full of a deep and sincere regret. But they were equally full of an irrevocable decision.
"Mr. Farlow," he said, in his quaintly formal manner, "I must leave here. I must leave England. There is danger—great danger in my remaining. Oh, not for me," he went on, in response to a question in the other's eyes. "I do not care that for danger to my life." He flicked his fingers in the air. "Danger? It is the breath of life. No, it is not that. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of the project which is so dear to my heart—to my daughter's heart, as well as mine. My presence here can only add jeopardy to others. I can serve no purpose. I have your promise that the work will go on to its finish. It is all I can ask. And in that my services are not needed. I shall leave for some part of America. That is all."
Ruxton's thoughtful eyes were searching. He was exercising great restraint.
"Will you be safer in any other part of the world?"
The other hesitated. The awkwardness of his excuses troubled him. He finally shrugged.
"It is not for myself. This place is alive with spies searching for me. I know it. I—far more than the shipyards—am the magnet that draws them here. It is not good for the work. It is not good for you—or your father. Who knows——?"
"How do you know they have traced you here?"
The Prince's thin cheeks flushed.
"I know it," he said, and the manner of his assertion warned Ruxton that it was useless to proceed further in the matter.
He knew beyond a doubt that some influence was at work, the secret of which he was not to be admitted to. He knew beyond question that that secret had been communicated to her father in Vita's letter. He knew that it was something vital and pressing which she desired kept from him. What was it? For him there was only one explanation. For some incomprehensible reason she meant to abandon him. But was it incomprehensible? Was it? She was a woman—a beautiful, beautiful woman. There were other men, doubtless hundreds of men, who might possess greater attractions for her than he could ever hope to possess. And yet—no, he could not, would not believe it.
Ruxton spent another long day and night travelling. He reached London and Smith Square in a fog, which by no means helped to lighten his mood. He visited Scotland Yard, where he spent an hour in close consultation, and when he departed thence for Buckinghamshire he was accompanied by a prominent officer. He spent several hours at Wednesford and Redwithy, and finally returned again to town.
His movements were made with a complete disregard for himself. Weary? Depressed and worn out, he admitted to himself he had no time for weariness. He was obsessed by one thought now, one thought which dominated all others. He had lost Vita. She seemed to be passing completely and finally out of his life.
On his return to Smith Square he spent the long evening alone. He would see nobody. He would transact no business, and the faithful Heathcote was distressed, he even protested. But for once the usual amenability of his friend and employer was lost amidst a jarring irritability, and the secretary was forced to leave him to his ungracious solitude.
During that long evening alone Ruxton endured a series of mental tortures such as only the imaginative can ever be called upon to endure. Every conceivable aspect of the situation arose before his mind's eye, clad in the drab of hopelessness, until it seemed there could be no possible place for one single gleam of promise. Many of these pictures were based upon the insidious doubts which never fail to attack those in the throes of a consuming passion such as his.
At one moment he saw, in the disaster which had befallen him, the duplicity of a woman whose love has no depth, whose love is the mere superficial attraction of the moment, and which, under given conditions, can be flung aside as a thing of no consequence, no value. Following upon each such accusation came denial—simple, swift, emphatic denial, as he remembered the treasured moments in the little flat in Kensington; as he remembered the woman of the Yorkshire cliffs; the woman whose shining eyes had revealed the mother soul within her as she appealed for the great world of humanity with passionate denial of self. Doubts of her could not remain behind such memories. It was like doubting the rise of the morrow's sun.
Then, too, the simplicity of his own loyalty, apart from all reason, denied for him. It was the simple psychology of the devoted Slav in him battling and defeating the more acrimonious and fault-finding nature of his insular forebears.
There was reason enough for his doubts. He knew that. The steady balance of reason was markedly his, and once, after a feverish struggle, he allowed himself to give it play, and sought to review the case as might a prosecuting counsel.
The salient points of the situation were so marked that they could not be missed. Vita had gone to Redwithy in a fever of anticipation, with assurances of devotion to him upon her beautiful lips, to await a message from him of her father's safety. That message is duly dispatched. It reaches its destination. It is opened by some one and carefully re-sealed. Vita sends no acknowledgment. Later it is discovered that Vita has left Redwithy, almost on the moment of her arrival at her home, since when she has not returned. Apparently her going is voluntary.
On the face of it, it would appear that she has not received the message. But subsequently she proves, by writing to her father, that she is aware of his safe arrival, which is the news contained in his message. Furthermore, she addresses her letter from Redwithy, as though she desires him to communicate with her at that place. All these facts are so definite that the reasonable conclusion is that Vita has wilfully endeavored to hide herself from him—Ruxton.
That, he told himself, was the cold logic of it.
Then, even as he arrived at the conclusion, a hot passion of denial leapt. It was wrong, wrong. He could stake his soul on it it was wrong. Logic? Argument? Reason? They were all fallible; fallible as—as hell. Anyway, they were in this case, he moodily assured himself. Vita was above all such petty trickery. So contemptible a conclusion was an insult to a pure, brave, beautiful soul. It belonged to the gutter in which, he told himself, he was floundering.
There must be another reply to every question which the evidence opened up. What was the other view of it? He leapt back at once to his first inspiration. Treachery—treachery of the enemy. His first prompting had been that Vita had fallen into their hands. How, then, could this be made to fit in with the letter Prince von Hertzwohl had received from his daughter? At the first consideration it seemed that such fitment became impossible.
But he attacked it; he attacked it with all the vigor and imagination of a keen, resolute brain, backed by the passionate yearning of his soul. But dark mists of confusion obscured the light he sought—mists of confusion and seeming impossibility through which he must grope and flounder his way.
For a long time there seemed no promise. A dozen times hope fell headlong and died the death. But with each rebuff he started afresh at the given point that—Vita was in enemy hands, whose will she was forced to obey.
After long hours of defeat his efforts wearied. His power of concentration lessened. He found himself repeating over and over again his formula without advancing one single step. Bodily fatigue was helping to oppress his mental faculties. He was growing sleepy. Again and again he strove to rouse himself. But the net results of his effort was a continuation of the idiotic repetition of his formula.
He was not really aware of these things. Mental and bodily weariness had completely supervened. Another few minutes and—— But something galvanized him into complete wakefulness. His weariness fell from him, and he started up in his chair alert—vigorously alert. By some extraordinary subconscious effort he had become aware that his formula had changed. He was no longer repeating it in full—only the latter portion of it: "Whose will she is forced to obey." And as he thought of them now the words rang with a new and powerful significance.
It was the spark of light he had so long sought, and it had leapt out at him from amidst the deep mists of confusion.
So it was that when eleven o'clock came, and the hall gong clanged below, Ruxton went himself to admit his visitor from Scotland Yard. His whole aspect had completely changed from the dispirited creature who had curtly refused to consider matters which Heathcote had placed before him some hours previously.
Inspector Purdic was a smiling, dark man of athletic build and decided manner. He was by no means of senior rank in his profession. But his reputation was unique amongst his colleagues. It was said of him that his record could be divided into two parts, as everybody else's could, but with this difference: his failures came during his early days of inexperience, and could be marked off with a sharp line of division. Beneath that line was nothing but a list of successes.
The officer's manner was deferential. He had had to deal with many men of considerable position. But this was the first time he had been brought into contact with a Cabinet Minister, even of junior rank.
He felt that it was a fresh step up the ladder he had set for his own climbing. He had made his visit there late in the hope that the Cabinet Minister might be induced to give him a protracted and uninterrupted interview, and was pleasantly surprised at the manner in which his explanation was received.
"You see, sir," he said, "it's always a difficulty with us, dealing with a busy public man. So I took a chance, because there's got to be a lot of close talk done."
But Ruxton denied the need for apology.
"As a matter of fact I'm glad you've called—now. If it had been earlier I should not have been so pleased." He laughed, and the smiling eyes of the officer noted the laugh carefully.
"That's all right then, sir."
The two men passed up-stairs to Ruxton's study, and, while he revelled in the enjoyment of one of his host's best cigars, Purdic bluntly set out the objects he sought in this late visit.
"Now, Mr. Farlow," he began, "we've been on this thing some days now, and we're still groping around like a pair of babes in the wood. We've located a few bits. We've discovered certain suspicious circumstances, but nothing's led anywhere, and we're just as far off finding this Princess as if we were dodging icebergs up around the Pole. And do you know why, sir?"
Ruxton was not without ideas on the subject, but he nevertheless shook his head.
"No," he said. He was lounging in the chair which had claimed him nearly all the evening.
The other cleared his throat.
"Because you've set up a brick wall between me and the job you've set me at. The wall's high and thick, and it's plastered with Government political secrecy. You mustn't mind my speaking this way, sir. You see, you want certain work done, and I want to do it. But miracles don't concern me, and that's what you're asking of me, unless you break down that wall. With due respect, sir, it's no use asking men of my profession to disentangle a skein of fine thread and refuse to let 'em handle the skein. It can't be done; that's all."
Ruxton nodded, and the man with the smiling face went on.
"I want to know what lies behind, sir. That's what I've come here for to-night. You'll either tell me, or you won't. You are the best judge of what is at stake, and whether you are justified in disclosing secrets in the hope of discovering the whereabouts of the Princess. The question is, is the discovery of her worth the risk? From the moment I began on this I saw the direction things were taking. Now, this man Vassilitz is a foreigner. All the servants at Redwithy are foreigners. The lady herself is a foreign—princess. Her record during the war tells of her Polish origin. There were three Polands: Russian, Austrian and German. She claimed Russian, and was known by a Russian-sounding name. Her title sounds German. That's all the history of her I have got. But if I'm any judge there's a lot more, and in that additional history lies the secret of her present disappearance. Well, sir, that's my case, and I put it to you. If you cannot see your way to telling me anything more, I can hold out very little hope. I shall naturally continue to work the matter, but——"
The man was still smiling his involuntary smile, which was due to a curious facial formation. Nor could Ruxton help realizing the perfect mask it became. But his demands were startling and a little disconcerting. He rose from his chair and began to pace the room, his preoccupation finding expression in the gnawing of one of his finger-nails.
The other watched him through the veil of smoke which hung upon the warm air of the room. Finally he came to a halt on the rug before the fire.
"Yes, it's political," he admitted. Then, with a curious upward jerk of his head, and a hot light in his dark eyes: "Damnably political—and secret."
"Yes?"
Ruxton laughed.
"You want more; much more. You want it all." He shook his head. "But you can't have it. That's been the devil of it, eh? No, I can't tell you all you want to know. But I can tell you this much. It's your brains—our brains against all the arch-devilry of the German Government, backed by no less a person than the——"
The detective gave a long, low whistle.
"It's as serious as that?" He stirred in his chair.
"Serious? It's likely to involve the death of anybody concerned. Not only the victims of these machinations, but of those who interfere on their behalf. There, that's all I can say of what lies behind, and you must be satisfied, or pretend to be. Meanwhile I can tell you something which is going to be helpful to us, which I couldn't have told you if you had paid your visit an hour or so earlier. I have discovered a means by which I fancy the Princess can be rescued from these German demons."
Ruxton turned, and again flung himself into his chair. He was smiling with confidence and hope. The officer insinuated his chair nearer and waited. Every faculty was alert. The other took no notice of his movements. He was absorbed in his own thoughts. He had taken a great decision, and all his imaginative faculties were at work piecing together the pictured details.
The officer coughed. The long pause was becoming too extended for his patience. Ruxton started. He looked round and smiled.
"Listen to this," he said, "and tell me what you think."
It was well past midnight when Detective-Inspector Purdic rose to take his departure. The automatic smile on his face had broadened noticeably, and Ruxton felt that now, at least, it was inspired. He, too, was smiling. His own decision had met with something more than approval from the professional. The man had caught something of the quiet daring of the brain which had been keen enough to penetrate the meaning of certain obscure signs, and reckless enough to evolve a plan of action which promised a possibility of defeating all the trickery against which they were pitted.
Furthermore, the officer had been able to point certain vital matters, and offer suggestions in several directions of importance out of his long experience. Between them they had matured carefully, and placed in concrete form, a plan which, under any other conditions of a less grave nature, must have appeared the veriest of forlorn hopes, and which either of them would certainly have classed amongst the schemes of the most advanced cases confined within the four walls of a lunatic asylum.
"I'm glad I came, sir," said the officer, in his blunt fashion. "I had my doubts about it. It didn't seem to offer much hope, seeing I was dealing with a Cabinet Minister who hadn't seen his way, so far, to opening out on official secrets of his own accord; and on that score, I admit, it was no use. But you've done better than that, sir. You've taught me something which twenty years of my own business wasn't able to teach me—and it's in my own line, too. I sort of feel, sir, some one's going to wake up with a horrid start, and—it won't be us. Good-night, sir, and thank you. I'll set everything in train without delay. I shall take the five men I mentioned with me when I go north to-morrow, and look to the local police for any other force we may need."
"Good." Ruxton shook him by the hand. "I'll see to the other side of it in—my own way. Good-night, and thank you for coming."
Von Salzinger was in a bad mood. He was feeling the effects of close personal contact with the authority which he had been bred to acknowledge, to obey. In the abstract he admitted the right of it. In practice he had little enough complaint. But in personal contact with the administrators of it the tyranny became maddening. For once in his life he realized how far short of a free-acting, free-thinking being he really was, in spite of the considerable rank of Captain-General to which he had risen.
He possessed all the dominating personality of his race, all the hectoring brutality of his fellow-Prussians. He had no difficulty in submitting to a system which he found pleasure in enforcing upon those who acknowledged his authority, but to endure the personal meting out of such discipline by Von Berger was maddeningly irritating. He felt that his association with the all-powerful intimate of the Emperor was nearing the breaking-point, and when that point was reached he knew that whatever breaking took place he was bound to be the chief sufferer.
His irritation lasted all day. He had received a number of definite instructions, as though he were some insignificant underling. Von Berger had dictated his requirements. And Von Salzinger was galled, galled and furious. Nor was it until Von Berger had taken his departure that he felt he could again breathe freely.
Then had come a letter by hand. It was a letter for Vita, who remained in his charge. But though he read the letter, carefully steaming it open and re-sealing it so that detection was well-nigh impossible, and its contents proved satisfactory, still his temper underwent little betterment.
The day wore on filled with the many duties which Von Berger had demanded of him, and which he almost automatically fulfilled. He saw many callers. He held many consultations. He delivered many instructions in that harsh autocratic manner which he resented in Von Berger. But it was not until after he had dined amply in the evening, and his gastronomic senses had been indulged with an amplitude of good wine and savory fare, that he began to forget the glacial frigidity of the man who had power to reduce his own dominating personality to the level of an anæmic lackey.
After dinner he moved out onto the terrace which fronted the dining-room. It was a splendid night with a bright full moon. It was chilly but refreshing, and Von Salzinger, whatever else his habits might be, loved the fresh air. He paced the broad walk under the moon, and every now and then his eyes were turned upon a distant portion of the upper part of the mansion, where shone the lights of Vita's apartments. At last he seemed to have decided some momentous matter, and returned within the house and flung aside the heavy overcoat he was enveloped in.
The heaviness of his military figure was carefully toned under the perfect lines of his evening clothes. But the rigidity of his square shoulders and back would not be denied. Then, too, the shape of his head. He was Prussian, so Prussian, and every inch a soldier of the Hohenzollern dynasty.
He made his way down the long corridors which led towards a distant wing of the house, and passed on up-stairs.