Lethbridge and Isabella, but also Josiah Lethbridge had come. Their
faces formed a curious contrast. Mrs. Lethbridge looked proud, almost
triumphant, in spite of the marks of the sorrow which were plainly to be
seen on her face. I noticed, too, that after the meeting commenced she
entered heartily into the singing of the hymns.
Her daughter's face, on the other hand, was not easy to describe. In one
sense she looked callous, bored, indifferent; in another, there was an
expression of amazement, bewilderment, which I could not explain. But
she made no sign of any sort. She sang none of the hymns, neither did
she bow her head during prayer. As for Josiah Lethbridge, his face
remained stern and immovable during the whole of the meeting.
Some one spoke of him afterwards as looking like a "graven image." Years
before, I was told, Josiah Lethbridge used to pray in the
prayer-meetings at the Wesleyan Chapel; but he had ceased doing so for a
long time, although he had never severed his connection with the Church
and had rigidly maintained his observance of the outward form of
religion. More than once I wondered why he was there, for he must have
seen the curious eyes that were cast upon him. Of course every one had
heard of Hugh Lethbridge's death. Every one knew, too, that the father
had driven his son from home because he had joined the Army, and because
he had married the girl he loved. Besides all this, it was common talk
that John Treleaven's daughter Mary had never been bidden to the great
house at Trecarrel. The gossips had talked about it freely, and many
remarks, not complimentary to Hugh's father, had passed. Still he was
there, his face as stern as ever, his eyes keenly alert to all that took
place.
Just before the meeting commenced we were somewhat surprised to see not
only the Vicar, but the Wesleyan minister ascend the platform together.
The Vicar explained this circumstance at the commencement of the
proceedings. He repeated what he had said the previous night, and
described how the Church and the Chapel had for years been regarded as
opposing camps.
"My dear friends," said the Vicar quietly, "I have been a Churchman all
my life, and shall remain one until my death; but the troubles through
which we are passing have taught me to see many things. I suppose we
shall never see eye to eye, but we are all believers in the same God and
in the same Saviour. More than that, we are all English people. Lads
from the Church are fighting at the front, side by side with the lads
from the Chapel. They are all fighting for a common cause. We all have
our sorrows, too, and I have been led to see how foolish I have been in
being so exclusive. Yes, God has taught me many lessons. That is why
this morning I drove to Mr. Bendle's house. He is the minister of the
circuit of which St. Issey Wesleyan Chapel is a part. We talked
together, prayed together, and he has come here to-night to help me in
this meeting."
I cannot say that I was much impressed by what took place, and yet in a
way I was. I had no convictions of my own, but I could not help
realizing the convictions of others. Somehow reality was taking the
place of unreality. Most of the praying was done by the Chapel people,
as none of the people from the Church had been taught to pray in public.
Indeed, only one Churchman, with the exception of the Vicar, took part
in the meeting, and that was the Squire. I will not try to reproduce his
prayer. It was very unconventional, and yet the fact of this man taking
part in such a meeting was significant of much. I noticed, too, that the
Squire was as nervous as a child.
When the meeting was over, Mr. Treherne took hold of my arm.
"Wait for me, will you, Erskine? I want to speak to Trelaske a minute,
and then I am going to drive you up to your place."
The room was nearly empty at this time, and no one but myself saw
Isabella Lethbridge come towards me.
"Mr. Erskine, you do not understand, and because you do not understand
you are hard and unsympathetic," she said.
She gave me no chance of replying, and I was left wondering as to the
meaning of her words.
The next morning the newspapers were again full of accounts of the work
of the German submarines. Three trading vessels had been sunk, and many
lives lost. This reminded me of the determination to which I had come on
the previous Sunday night, and directly after breakfast I made
preparations for carrying out my plans. If there was any truth in old
Father Abraham's warnings, however, it was necessary for me to be
careful, so I made a point of reconnoitring the coast before taking any
definite action.
I dressed myself as if for walking, and arming myself with a walking
stick, and putting the revolver, which Simpson had persuaded me to
carry, in my hip pocket, I went to the highest point of the cliff. It
was one of those dull days when a thick mist enveloped everything, and
although this mist, unlike a London fog, did not entirely hide the view,
it shut out everything except what lay in the near distance.
I had scarcely reached the summit of the headland when I heard a cry of
pain. With some difficulty I located it, and after investigation
discovered a poor little mongrel dog, lying wounded. The creature looked
piteously up at me as I approached, as if to solicit my aid. On
examining it more closely I found that it had received what seemed like
a wound from a pistol or a rifle, but of this I was not sure. I did not
think it was mortally wounded, although it bled freely. I had never seen
the dog before, nor could I imagine who could be its master.
"Poor little chap," I said, as I patted its head. It gave a slight yelp,
as if in recognition of my act of kindness. "Simpson has always been
wanting me to keep a dog," I reflected. "I wonder if this little thing
would live if I took it home and cared for it?"
For a moment the incident, slight as it was, drove from my mind the
purpose I had in view. I was preparing to carry it back when I heard the
sound of voices. Immediately the dog gave a cry of fear and pain.
Perhaps it shrank from my endeavors to carry it. I placed it upon the
ground, reflecting that I would return to the house and obtain Simpson's
assistance, but at that moment a man and a woman came within my view. I
remembered in a moment that they were the people who had spoken to me,
as I sat basking in the sunlight, a few days before.
"Ah, what have you there?" said the man.
"I have only just found it," I replied. "I came out for a walk, and
heard the poor little thing moaning."
"The little wretch has been poaching, I expect, and somebody's
gamekeeper has shot it."
"I should not think that likely," was my reply. "This is common land
here, and no one, as far as I know, has attempted to preserve it. The
only man who owns a gamekeeper in the immediate district is Squire
Treherne, and his woods are at least two miles away."
The man looked at the dog, as I thought, indifferently, while the woman
shuddered at the sight of blood.
"Have you any idea whose it is?" he asked.
"Not the slightest," I replied.
"I should let him stay, if I were you," said the man. "He is an
ugly-looking beast, and I should judge that his teeth are poisonous.
There is no trusting that kind of dog, they will bite even those who try
to help them."
All this time the poor little thing was whining and whimpering
piteously.
"I shall take it back to the house," I said. "I am afraid it is badly
wounded, but I should like to save its life if I could."
"Even if you do, you will never win a prize at the shows," said the man,
with a laugh. "I hate those mongrel dogs. By the way," he went on, "is
not this a bad morning for you to be out? You look very ill, and have
the appearance of a man who ought to be in bed."
To this I made no reply. To say the least of it, I regarded it as an
impertinence for the man to make any remark at all on my appearance. I
knew nothing of him, and beyond the occasions I have mentioned I had
never met him.
"You are a hard-hearted brute," said the lady, speaking to her brother.
"I think it awfully kind of you, sir, to take so much interest in the
poor little thing."
"Excuse me for asking," said the man, "but since I have met you I have
often wondered at you living alone at that little hut." His manner
appeared to invite confidence.
"I expect I am somewhat of a hermit," I replied.
"But whatever induced you to live in such a place? Are you not afraid of
tramps and that sort of thing?" and he nodded towards my little house.
"Tramps!" I replied. "I have not seen a tramp since I have been in
Cornwall."
"Well, different people, different tastes!" and he laughed as he spoke.
"But if I were you I should not live in such a lonely spot as that for
whatever might be given me. Even in Cornwall it is possible to dispose
of people, and you would be fair prey to any strolling vagabond."
"He might be wanting to frighten me," I said to myself. "I wonder what
his purpose is?" and I could not help connecting him with old Father
Abraham.
"Rather bad news of the war again," he went on, as if desiring to change
the subject.
"As to that," I replied, "I thought it was rather good news, except for
what the German submarines are doing."
"Yes, yes, the submarines, they are very bad."
"What brutes the Germans are," chimed in the woman. "They make me feel
just murderous. Oh, I wish I were a man that I might join the Army."
All the time the poor little creature was whimpering as if in pain.
"Let me throw it over the cliff," said the man, "and put it out of its
misery."
"No," I replied, "I am going to take it back to the house."
"Yes, yes, do," said the woman. "May I help you? I am awfully fond of
dogs. I have kept them all my life and know a good deal about them. I
have saved two that the veterinary surgeons had given up."
I picked the little creature up carefully, and was wending my way back
to the cottage when the woman rushed to my side.
"You will let me help you, won't you?" she said. "I am so sorry for the
poor little thing."
Badly as I wanted to refuse her help, it was impossible to decline a
woman's proffered kindness, and a few minutes later both the man and the
woman had accompanied me to my little house, and I stood watching her,
as with deft fingers she washed the poor little dog's wounds.
"There!" she said when she had finished. "I think he will be better now.
May I ask your servant to get me a basin of clean water so that I can
wash my hands?"
As I have said in describing our last meeting, she was one of the
handsomest women I had ever seen, and I quickly discovered that she was
more than ordinarily intelligent. How it was I do not know, because I am
not quick to form acquaintances, but in a few minutes I had ordered
Simpson to bring refreshments, and was talking with them freely. They
told me that they were staying at a furnished house near St. Eia, that
they had been staying there for some months and intended remaining
instead of returning to London.
"I hate London," said the woman, "and I love the quiet peacefulness of
this neighborhood. Besides, I do not think it is safe to live in London.
The Germans intend to raid London, and they will throw bombs all over
the city. No one will be safe."
This led to a general conversation about the war, and about the cruelty
and baseness of the Germans in attacking defenseless ships and murdering
women and children. In spite of myself, too, I found that I was
subjected to a kind of cross-examination, and yet no one listening could
have detected a question which could have in the slightest degree been
regarded as suspicious, but here my lawyer's training came to my aid,
and I was careful to drop no hint of any suspicions I might entertain.
When they had gone I heaved a sigh of relief, although, truth to tell,
the woman's presence had fascinated me. I wondered who she was, and
could not help asking myself if there was not some motive behind that
which appeared on the surface, actuating them to find their way into my
little cottage.
"Simpson," I said, when they had gone, "what did you think of those
people?"
"I think they are a very nice lady and gentleman," he said. "The lady
herself was very charming."
"You liked her, did you?" I said.
"I always say, sir, that when a dumb animal takes to a person there is
nothing much wrong with that person. Now that little dog, sir, was
afraid of his life of the man, but did you see how grateful he was to
the lady? And no wonder, sir! She treated him as if he were a
Christian."
"Which way have they gone, Simpson?"
"They went towards St. Eia, sir."
I hesitated a second. I did not like to take Simpson into my confidence,
neither was I pleased at the thought that I had been discussing my
visitors with him; still, he was an old servant, and, as I have
frequently said, I regarded him more in the light of a friend than a
servant.
"Simpson," I said, "just follow them, will you, and see where they go
and what they do."
"Yes, sir," he said, but I could see that he was astonished at my
request.
Half an hour later he returned.
"Please, sir," he said, "they went along the St. Eia footpath, and then
turned off as if they meant to go to Chy-an-Wheal."
Of course there was nothing suspicious in this, and yet my mind was not
at ease. I had never been a man given to morbid fancies, and had always
been too much a materialist to pay attention to people who profess to
believe in premonitions; and yet my meeting with this man and woman had
again stirred a thousand fancies in my mind, while the little creature
sleeping on the rug seemed in some way to cause vague fears to come into
my mind. Perhaps this was because of the state of my health. It seemed
to me that my life, humdrum and commonplace though it might appear, was
surrounded by mystery. I had vague intuitions which had no basis of
reason.
After a time I rose and went out. I wanted to shake off the feelings
which possessed me. A few minutes later I was scrambling down the
cliff-side, hidden by the thick scrub of bushes. Presently I had a view
of the whole of the little bay, which seemed absolutely deserted. I was
far from fit to undertake what I had planned to do, but I could not
resist the impulse which possessed me. I descended farther, and soon I
was at the foot of the cliffs, looking eagerly around me. I found my way
into the cave, but there was nothing suspicious there. Evidently no one
had visited it since the last high tide. The sandy floor was untrodden;
there were no marks of any one having been there. I crept out again, but
still no one was visible.
"What a fool I am," I said to myself. "I am like a nervous child
following a will-o'-the-wisp of my own fancies."
Still, what I had seen and heard could not be without meaning. I could
have sworn to the fact that I had heard people at this very spot only a
few hours before. I had heard a man say, "Is that the lot?" and some one
had given him an indistinct reply. Of course this might have meant
nothing, and yet I was sure it had. Again I examined the rocks inch by
inch, but my search was altogether unrewarded. I passed the little
fissure which led to the cave again, and this time I saw what I had
never seen before. In an obscure corner, not far from the entrance, was
another fissure. It was very narrow, but still wide enough for a man to
squeeze his body through. I wondered why I had never seen it before, but
on reexamining it I realized that it was so curiously formed, that any
one with only a match to illuminate the cave could easily miss it. I
squeezed myself through the fissure, and found myself in a cave far
larger than the first.
In an instant the mystery of the last few months became plain to me. The
new cave was as perfect a hiding-place as could possibly be found.
Altogether there must have been some hundreds of cans of petrol placed
there. This petrol was by different makers. Evidently it had been bought
in comparatively small quantities at various places, and had been
brought there to be ready for use as necessity arose.
I understood now the meaning of the words I had heard only a little
while before.
"Is that the lot?"
What the speaker meant was evident. He had brought a consignment of
petrol to this lonely spot, and his words referred to what I saw around
me.
I realized also the significance of what Father Abraham had said to me
during his midnight visit. Evidently he knew what the cave contained
when he said that I was standing on a powder magazine. According to my
calculations it was almost immediately under my little wooden hut. When
I had asked him whether he spoke figuratively or literally, he had
replied, "Both."
I remembered, too, the article I had seen in the London newspaper. The
writer of this article had asked where the Germans had been able to
obtain the petrol which enabled them to do their devilish work by means
of submarines. Now it was plain. This cave, curiously hidden in the
rocky cliff in a quiet, far-away spot on the Cornish coast, suited their
purpose admirably. I myself had visited the outer cave on more than one
occasion and yet had not discovered it. How many lives, I wondered, had
been lost by the stuff which had been stored in this place! I called to
mind the times when I had seen phantom-like boats coming round the
headland. I remembered how I had puzzled as to what they might mean. Now
all was plain; this rocky cliff, although far away from the centre of
operations, was important beyond words. Evidently those who had been
engaged in this work had cleverly avoided the coast watchers. Quietly
and unsuspectingly they had brought cargo after cargo, and when the
submarines had need of petrol they had been able to supply them.
All this flashed through my mind in a second, then the match by means of
which I had made my discovery went out. I realized the awful danger by
which I was surrounded; doubtless all these cans were carefully sealed,
yet I knew that one spark might ignite this highly combustible fluid,
and I should be burnt to death. But that was the smallest part of my
danger. I knew that the men who were engaged in this work would stop at
nothing; that the spies who had sought out this lonely cave would be
ready to do anything in order to keep a secret.
A hundred wild fancies surged through my brain. I saw now why Father
Abraham had been driven from his hut. What his connections with the
Germans were I had no idea, but evidently he had been regarded as
dangerous to their plans. That, doubtless, was the reason why the old
man had warned me. His words came flashing back to my mind, and revealed
to me the fact that I had been under constant surveillance. Then I
thought of the man and woman who had lately visited me. What was the
meaning of their interest in me? Were they what they pretended, or had
they some sinister motive in asking me questions?
My discovery made the necessity of action imperative. But what could I
do? Here was I, a poor invalid, and, if Dr. Rhomboid was right, I had
only a few weeks longer to live. I had, as it seemed to me, only kept
myself alive by my strong will power and determination that I would not
yield to death. But what could I do? I had by this time learnt something
of the police officials in the neighborhood, and I knew how utterly
incapable they were of dealing with the matter. I was acquainted with
some magistrates in the district, but I feared to go to them; a man like
Squire Treherne would be utterly incapable of dealing with such a
delicate situation. I knew that in his blunt, straightforward, honest
way he would muddle everything. It is true I might write to the War
Office or to the Admiralty, but, rightly or wrongly, I did not form a
high estimate of their way of doing things; and yet I could see nothing
else for it. Even now I might be watched. Even now German agents might
be waiting outside the cave to pounce upon me.
I lit another match, and saw something which had hitherto escaped my
notice. It was a slip of paper. I snatched at it eagerly and carefully
read it, my heart beating wildly all the time.
The light again went out.
How long I remained there in the darkness I do not know, but it seemed
to me as though I lived years in a few minutes.
A wild scheme flashed through my brain. I would deal with this matter
alone! I could not fight for my country, but I would serve it in my own
way.
I listened intently, but could hear nothing save the dull monotone of
the waves outside. No whispering voices reached me. The darkness of the
cave seemed to intensify the silence. I crept into the outer cave and
again listened; still all was silent. Then I made my way into the
daylight, taking every precaution before doing so. No, as far as I could
tell no curious eyes were watching me. I was alone.
XXIII
A CLUE TO THE MYSTERY
I seemed to have a fresh lease of life as I clambered up the rocky cliff
towards my hut. I had no sense of weariness or weakness at all; it might
seem as though all my fears had been groundless, and that Dr. Rhomboid
had been utterly mistaken.
I expect this was because of the great excitement under which I labored.
Every nerve in my body was in tension; at that moment nothing seemed
impossible to me. My mind, I remember, seemed as vigorous as my body,
and I felt as though I was walking on air. The possibilities of what I
had discovered might mean putting an end to one of the greatest dangers
which had been threatening our country. From what I could judge, this
might be one of the principal store places of petrol. I realized, as I
had never realized before, the cleverness of the German mind. No one, I
imagined, would think of this out-of-the-way district as a possible
centre of their operations. Naturally the whole of the East Coast from
Dover to the extreme North of Scotland would be watched with the
greatest care; but who would have thought they would choose this
out-of-the-way spot on the North of Cornwall? It might seem as though
Providence had led me thither.
More than once on my way to the house did I stop and look eagerly around
me, but I was always assured that no one watched me, and that I was
utterly alone; besides, I could not have chosen a more perfect day for
my investigation. Although it was now near noon and the weather showed
signs of breaking, a thick damp mist still enveloped the whole
countryside, thus making observation from a distance almost impossible.
"Everything all right, sir?" asked Simpson, as I entered the house.
"What should be wrong?" was my reply.
"Nothing, sir, only you might have seen a ghost; you look terribly
strange and excited, sir."
I laughed aloud.
"I have not felt so well for months, Simpson."
He looked at me dubiously, I thought, and seemed anything but satisfied.
"Are you ready for your lunch, sir?"
"Lunch?" I replied. "Haven't I had lunch?"
Making my way into my little bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my face. I
hardly recognized myself! Pale as I had always been since my illness, my
pallor had been nothing to the white, drawn, haggard face which I saw in
the glass. But for the wild glitter in my eyes, it might have been the
face of a dead man, and yet every particle of my being seemed instinct
with life.
After pretending to eat some of the lunch which Simpson had prepared for
me, an unusual languor crept over me, and throwing myself on the couch,
I quickly fell asleep.
I was awakened by a sound of voices at the door, and I started up
quickly. As far as I could judge, I suffered no evil results from the
excitement through which I had passed. Whatever had caused me unnatural
strength, its influence had not yet departed.
"Simpson," I said, "whom have you got there?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I have just told Mr. Lethbridge that he
could not see you. I did not think you looked well, sir."
"Show Mr. Lethbridge in. I am perfectly all right."
"I am afraid I should not have called," said Mr. Lethbridge, as he
entered the room. "You do not look well."
"I am better than I have been for months," was my answer. "Sit down,
won't you?"
He gave me a quick, searching glance, and then took the chair to which I
had pointed. There were marks of suffering in his face. Although he was
calm and collected and showed no signs of emotion whatever, I thought I
saw in his eyes a strange, haunted look.
"I am afraid I did not receive you very cordially yesterday," he said
presently. "You see it--it was the shock."
"Of course it was," was my answer. "I understand how you must be
feeling."
"Do you?" he replied wearily. "I don't."
"Don't what?" I asked.
"Understand. I understand nothing. I am bewildered. I am in hell."
He spoke very quietly although his voice was strained and somewhat
hoarse.
"You didn't sleep last night," I suggested.
"No," he replied, with a sigh, "I didn't sleep. I suppose I am regarded
as a hard man, Mr. Erskine?"