the conversation I had heard between John Liddicoat and the woman who
acted with him that I was a suspect, and that they had taken every
precaution against me. I knew, too, if my suspicions were correct, and
those suspicions almost amounted to a positive certainty, that I was
constantly watched, and that I had, more by chance than by cleverness of
my own, kept John Liddicoat in the dark.
It was a little after six o'clock in the evening, as near as I can
remember, when I returned to my cottage after having visited my wireless
apparatus, and made sure that no messages were being received. I had
barely entered my room when Squire Treherne paid me a visit. I cannot
say that I was glad to see him, much as I had grown to like him, for I
felt that I was on the eve of great events and was impatient at
interruption. Yet I knew he had not come without reason, and I could not
tell him that his visit was untimely.
As I have said before, I treated Simpson more as a friend than as a
servant, and while I had not in any degree taken him into my confidence,
he knew of, and had become interested in, my little wireless apparatus.
Indeed, he had rejoiced in my hobby, because he believed it took my mind
away from unpleasant things. Moreover, he had proved himself, especially
during the past few weeks, an exceedingly sensible fellow, and one who
was able to keep his own counsel. Seeing Squire Treherne, therefore, I
told Simpson to station himself in a spot from which he could not be
observed, to keep a sharp lookout on my little instrument, and to warn
me if any one should come near, and especially to take care that no one
should learn of its location.
Having taken this precaution, I went back to Mr. Treherne, who, judging
from his countenance, had important things to tell me.
"I hope you are well, Erskine," said the old man kindly, at the same
time looking anxiously into my face.
"As well as I shall ever be," was my reply. "Do I look ill?"
"No, I can't say you do, but you look strange. Nothing the matter, I
hope?" And again he looked at me anxiously.
"It is good of you to come and see me," was my response.
"Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it!" and his reply was eager. "The truth
is, I want a chat with you. I have told them at home to put off dinner
until eight o'clock in the hope that I may persuade you to come back
with me. I have a trap close by."
I shook my head.
"I am afraid I am not up to it, Squire. But I hope you have no bad
news?"
"Oh no, no bad news at all; quite the other way. But I say, my lad, I
don't like the idea of your being alone here night after night, with
only your man to look after you. You really don't look well. Come and
pay me a week's visit, will you? I feel it would do you good."
"You are awfully kind, Squire, but do you know I am a good deal of a
hermit. I have come to love this lonely life of mine, and every one is
so kind that I don't feel as though I lived amongst strangers."
"That's right, that's right; but promise me you will come back with me."
"Not to-night, Squire; I really can't."
"Well, then, come over to-morrow. Come and spend a week with me; we
should all love to have you."
"We will talk about that after I have heard your news," I said; "for I
am sure you have news. What is it?"
"I don't know why I want to tell you, but I feel as though I must.
Josiah Lethbridge has been converted."
"Converted! What do you mean?"
"The age of miracles is not past;" and the Squire laughed as he spoke.
"You know what my opinion of Lethbridge has been; you know, too, that he
is regarded as a kind of Shylock. I told you about our quarrel, didn't
I?"
"Yes, I remember perfectly."
"I hate war;" and he spoke as though he wanted to change the subject. "I
can't sleep of a night when I think of all the misery, all the agony it
is causing. I know that we as a nation could do nothing but what we have
done; but when I remember people like poor Searle, and the hundreds and
thousands all over the land whose hearts are broken, I feel like going
mad. It is simply hellish, man! Not that we can stop it. We must go on
and on, no matter what it costs us, until war is made impossible for the
future. No, Kaiserism, militarism must be crushed, destroyed forever!
Still I feel, Erskine, that there is a tremendous alchemy in war. It is
brutal, but it is purifying. It is hellish, but God uses it, and
over-rules it for His own purposes."
"I hope you are right," was my reply. "But what is your particular
reason for saying this now?"
"It is Lethbridge. You know what a hard man he is, don't you? You have
heard how he has got people into his grip, and ground them to powder?
You have been told how, like a spider, he has attracted them into his
web and imprisoned them? I don't say that, in a way, he has not been a
just man. He has never done anything that has violated the law. But he
has been cruel and merciless. He has demanded his pound of flesh to the
fiftieth part of an ounce. He has never forgiven an injury, and has
always been impatient of any one's will but his own. But there, I
needn't enlarge on that; you have heard, you know."
"I have heard a good many stories," I replied, "but as a lawyer I always
deduct about seventy per cent. from the total. You see, people are given
to exaggerate."
"Yes, yes, that may be. But Lethbridge was as hard as nails, as cruel as
death; that is why the wonder of it comes to me now."
"The wonder of what?" I asked.
The Squire hesitated a few seconds, and then went on: "He got me into
his meshes. Doubtless I was foolish, in fact I know I was. I speculated,
and then, although I was bitten, I speculated again. I don't say
Lethbridge encouraged me; but he made me feel that things would be sure
to come out right. They didn't, and I had to mortgage my estate. I hated
going to a bank for money, and Lethbridge helped me out. Little by
little he got the upper hand of me, until--well, for the last few years
I have been like a toad under a harrow. You can understand the position.
I never thought I should tell you this, in fact I have always kept my
troubles to myself. All the same, I have been mad at the thought that
the estate which has been in my family for I don't know how many
generations should be handed over to a man like Lethbridge."
I was silent, for there seemed nothing to say.
"This morning," went on the Squire, "he came to see me. At first I met
his advances coldly, for although he has had me in his power I have
always held up my head. To my unspeakable astonishment, he came with a
proposal which will enable me to be my own man again in five years. Just
think of it, Erskine! I feel as though an awful weight were lifted from
my back."
"Why did he do it?" I asked.
"That brings me back to what we were talking about. There is some
wondrous alchemy in war. It may debase some, but others it humbles and
ennobles. He said he had had a talk with you, and you had made him feel
that his son had died a hero, and was a martyr to his faith. In short,
Hugh's death has changed Lethbridge--shaken him to the very depths of
his life--revolutionized him. It seems that he has had further messages
about Hugh. From what I can understand, Hugh gave his life for his
enemy. At the risk of his own life he rescued a German officer, and was
killed while he was in the act of doing his glorious deed. The message
does not seem very clear, but that is the meaning of it. The thing
happened in the night-time, and the soldiers who told Hugh's Colonel
were not altogether sure of the details, but this they all insist on:
young Lethbridge was a hero; he might have saved himself, but wouldn't;
he rescued an enemy at the risk of his own life, and then paid the
penalty of his action."
I gave a long quivering sigh. I could not help being sad at such a
splendid life being cut off in the middle.
"Yes, yes," went on the Squire. "Hugh was a splendid boy. It seems awful
that we shall never see him again--at least, this side of the grave. But
that lad's not dead, Erskine. A boy who could do a deed like that could
never die. He had eternal life in him. Anyhow, Josiah Lethbridge is not
the same man. You should have seen the look of pride, and more than
pride, in his eyes as he told me about it. And what he has done for me,
he has done because he says he believes Hugh would have him do it. 'My
boy is speaking to me from heaven,' he said; 'that's why I am doing
it.'"
The Squire dashed a tear from his eyes as he spoke.
"Would to God I had a son like him! I tell you, Erskine, I would not
have minded losing my estate so much if I knew that he was coming into
it. But there, I have told you what I came to tell you. I thought you
would like to know. It is a miracle, nothing less than a miracle. He has
made me ashamed of myself. Here have I for years been going around
thinking hard thoughts and saying hard things about Josiah Lethbridge,
and now I feel as though I had been a mean, contemptible sneak. I have
scorned him because he is a Dissenter, I have said hard things about
people who are not of my way of thinking. I say, God Almighty is giving
us a shaking up, and showing us what blind fools we have been. As though
He cares what Church we belong to, what place of worship we attend, and
what form of prayer we say! I don't read the Bible much, Erskine, but
there is a passage which has been running in my mind all the way over
here: 'What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, to love
mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?' That goes to the heart of
things, doesn't it? All the rest is trimmings, trimmings. But there, I
must be getting back. Now, won't you come with me?"
"I can't to-night, anyhow," I said.
"Well, to-morrow; promise you will come over then. You will add to my
happiness, my boy. You will really!"
The Squire's proposal put a thought into my mind which had not occurred
to me before. I had determined on another plan, but our conversation had
suggested a better one.
"I will come over to-morrow for a week, provided I am able, on condition
that you do something for me," I said.
"Of course I will do anything for you, my boy. But what is it?"
"Do you know Colonel Laycock?"
"Perfectly well. I dined at his mess the other night."
"You are on good terms with him?"
"Of course I am. Why?"
"I am going to ask you to do a strange thing, Squire," I said. "I have
got a scheme in my mind. I am not going to tell you what it is. I am
afraid--I am afraid to tell any one. Why, I don't know; but it is a
fact. It is possible that to-night I shall send you a message--possible
that I shall ask you to do something which will not appeal to your
judgment. But I want you to do it. Will you?"
"But what is it, my dear fellow?"
"I cannot tell you; I want you to trust me. I believe big things are
moving, and if you will, I am sure you can help me to accomplish what I
have in my mind. If the thing comes off, I will write down detailed
instructions, and I want you to act on those instructions. You are a
magistrate, and therefore have considerable authority."
"Magistrate!" he said. "Is it something to do with law, then?"
"It is, and it isn't," I said. "The message may not come to-night, may
not come till to-morrow night or the next; but when it comes, I want you
to act on it. Will you?"
"Then will you come and spend a week with me?"
"If I can."
"I never like acting in the dark, Erskine, but you are a cautious
fellow, and I trust you implicitly. Yes, I will do it; but for the life
of me I can't see what you are driving at."
"Maybe it will end in nothing," I said, "in which case nothing will be
done. But I'll tell you this: if my plans bear fruit, as I think they
will, then--then--you will be glad you trusted in me. I am not asking
you to compromise yourself in any way; all the same, I tell you this: it
seems to me a matter of life and death."
For a few seconds the old man looked at me as if he doubted my sanity,
then he gripped my hand.
"I trust you completely, Erskine, and I will do what you ask. But I must
go now. Good-night, my boy. God bless you!"
Directly he had gone I went out to relieve Simpson, and on visiting my
wireless apparatus, I found that no message had come through. For the
next two hours I was on tenter-hooks. My mind was filled with a thousand
doubts. Fears of all sorts haunted me. What if my little apparatus were
not powerful enough? What if I had misunderstood the whole situation?
Everything seemed shadowy and unreal. I doubted myself, I doubted
everything. That little apparatus which I had prepared to receive
messages seemed as valueless as the toy of a child. How could messages
move across great spaces and affect the little instrument which I had
manipulated with such care? How could I expect to frustrate the plans of
people who were skilled in plotting, and who had been plotting for
years? Were not all my hopes and beliefs as baseless as the stuff of
which dreams are made? What could a man with the Angel of Death flying
over him expect to do under such circumstances?
Still I held on to my faith. Foolish as it might seem, I believed that
my reasoning was sound, that I had discovered the truth, and that by
carrying out my plans I might save hundreds of lives.
It was now dark; the moon, which was on the wane, would not rise till
far past midnight. Although the night was windless it was cloudy. This
fact made everything so dark that I did not dread watchful eyes.
Nine o'clock, half-past nine, ten o'clock, yet my little instrument was
silent. Had I misunderstood what John Liddicoat had said? Was I mistaken
when I heard him tell the woman that he must expect another message the
next night? I was in an agony of suspense. Then my heart gave a great
leap--the little instrument began to move, while I, with fast beating
heart, wrote quickly.
Ten minutes later I had locked myself in my little room and was eagerly
studying the slip of paper before me. I knew that the message, whatever
it might be, had emanated from a spot within a comparatively limited
radius, for the simple reason that my apparatus was not of sufficient
capacity to receive long-distance messages.
It is impossible for me to convey on paper the state of my mind as I
read the words which had been transmitted. My excitement was tense
beyond words. I felt my heart beating wildly; I scarce dared to breathe.
And yet the message looked innocent enough. It was simply this: "One
hour after midnight to-night. Completeness essential."
That was all; there were no explanations by which any one who was not in
the plot could gain any information. It might be received by a score of
wireless stations, and any one ignorant of what I knew would be none the
wiser. It gave no clue even to the most subtle mind whereby action could
be taken. It might be read by any one with perfect safety. No Government
official, whatever his position, could understand it. Neither would he
see any importance in it. The words were innocence itself, and yet, as I
believed, they meant the safety or the destruction of perhaps hundreds
of lives. So innocent did they seem that it appeared like madness to
take action, but remembering what I had seen and heard, connecting
incident with incident, and placing link to link as I did, my chain of
reasoning seemed flawless. If I were wrong in my conclusions, I should
not only be an object of ridicule, I might indeed be placing myself
under menace of the law.
Still I decided to act. Rapidly I wrote a letter to Squire Treherne,
giving him the minutest details of what I wished him to do. My brain, I
remember, was clear, and I was very careful to insist on all sorts of
precautions. This done, I summoned Simpson to me.
"Simpson," I said, "I want you to take this to Squire Treherne
immediately; it is a matter of great importance. It may be that you will
be in danger on the way; but that must be risked. You must speak to no
one. Take the footpath through the fields, and don't delay an instant."
Simpson looked at me steadily as though he doubted my sanity, but
evidently there was something in my eyes which told him how much in
earnest I was.
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," he said, and then he hesitated.
"What is it, Simpson?"
"You will be here all alone, sir."
"I can't help that; I shall be all right. Do as I tell you."
"Shall I find you here when I get back, sir?" he asked.
"No, Simpson, I was going to mention that. You will not find me here
when you get back. But take no notice of that; wait here until a quarter
past one."
"Quarter past one, sir! What, an hour and a quarter past midnight?"
"Wait here until a quarter past one," I repeated, "and then, if I do not
appear, make your way down to the copse, by the footpath, to the beach.
You know the cave which is almost immediately beneath the house; go
straight to the mouth of the cave and look for me."
Again Simpson looked at me as though he doubted my sanity, but, like the
well-bred servant he was, he made no reply but "Yes, sir; thank you,
sir."
A minute later I heard Simpson leaving the house.
I felt that the air was laden with tragic events. It was now past eleven
o'clock, and I had two hours in which to wait, but I could not stay
indoors. Strange as it may seem, I felt no weakness, while the malady
from which I suffered gave me no pain at all. I was still buoyed up by
the same strange, unnatural strength. I crept towards my little wireless
apparatus, but there was no further message. I remained in the near
distance for some time, waiting and watching; once or twice I thought I
heard a rustling among the bushes, but I was not sure. Although I had no
reason for my suspicion, I believed that some one was near me, that
furtive eyes were watching me; but I had no tangible reason for
believing this. At midnight I went back to the house again; Simpson had
not returned. The little dog I had rescued a few days before came and
sniffed at my feet, wagging his tail as he did so. Evidently the poor
little wretch was rapidly recovering from his wound; indeed he seemed
quite well. I put on an overcoat and prepared to go out. The dog still
wagged his tail, as though he thought he was going to accompany me.
"No," I said to him, "you must not come."
Whereupon he began to whimper piteously. I left the house, locking the
door, but I had not gone more than a few steps before I stopped. The dog
had begun to howl. "This will never do," I reflected. "I will let him
come with me, he can do no harm." I opened the door again, whereupon the
little brute rushed to me and capered with joy. "Be quiet," I said. "If
you follow me you must make no noise."
He seemed to understand, for he followed closely at my heels, making no
sound as I carefully made my way through the undergrowth. When I had
passed through the copse I stopped and listened; at first I thought I
heard a rustling sound behind me, but evidently I was mistaken, for all
was as silent as death. The night was still dark, although here and
there between the clouds I saw stars twinkling; not a breath of wind
stirred, and no sound reached me save the soughing of the waves. Some
miles out at sea I saw the revolving light of the Dead Man's Rock
Lighthouse. My descent to the beach was precipitous and somewhat
dangerous, but I knew the pathway, and noiselessly made my way down, the
dog keeping close to me all the time. A few minutes later I had reached
the beach, and again I listened. My eyes had become sufficiently
accustomed to the darkness to see that the dog was also listening. Once
or twice he gave a slight whimper, but at a whispered command he was
silent.
I found my way to the shelter of a rock close to the fissure by which
the outer cave was entered. Creeping into the hollow of the rock, I took
a little electric lamp from my pocket, and in its light saw that it was
nearly half-past twelve. Minutes at that time seemed to me an eternity.
Again I passed through all sorts of doubt, and more than once called
myself a madman who had followed a will-o'-the-wisp of a wild fancy.
Still I held fast to my resolution. From my hiding-place I could see the
fissure which led to the cave. At least it would be difficult for any
one to approach it without my seeing him. All the time the little dog
sat close by my side with eyes and ears alert. I think he understood the
condition of my mind.
Minute after minute passed slowly by, and there was neither sound nor
sight that gave me warning of any one's approach. I looked anxiously to
the right and to the left, seeking in vain to pierce the darkness of the
night; but nothing happened; I was alone and in silence.
I think I must have fallen into a kind of waking dream, for, as it
seemed to me, some moments passed when I had no consciousness of my
surroundings. Then suddenly the dog at my feet gave a savage yelp. It
was well he did so, for I saw two forms close by me, both of which
seemed to be in the act of pouncing upon me.
I have read somewhere of a man who, when facing a great crisis, felt
that he lived a lifetime in a few seconds. I realized now that this can
be true. Within a few seconds of the time when the dog yelped, the whole
panorama of the past twelve months, and all the details of that
panorama, flashed before my eyes. It came to me with a vividness which I
had never realized before. That I was indeed at the heart of a scheme
whereon depended the lives of many people; that these tins of petrol
were intended for German submarines; that this little cove had been used
as a storehouse for the fuel whereby the Germans had been able to do
their fiendish work; that in some way unknown to the authorities,
hundreds of cans of this spirit had been stored there from time to time,
and then, as they were needed, taken to those deadly monsters which
operated beneath the sea; and that I had, partly by chance, partly by
reasoning, but more by intuition, got at the heart of it all. I felt,
too, that on me depended the failure or success of the German scheme. By
some means or other Liddicoat, or one of his minions, had discovered or
suspected what I had done.
It was one of those moments, so tense, so weighted with vital issues,
that the human body and the human mind are made capable of what in
ordinary circumstances would be impossible. Without waiting a second,
without giving time to think, and yet feeling all the while that I was
acting upon reason rather than upon impulse, I leapt upon what seemed to
me the form of a man, and was instantly engaged in a deadly struggle.
Even now that struggle does not seem to me real. It is like the memory
of a dream rather than something which actually took place. But that it
did take place I have tremendous proof. I do not remember making any
noise of any sort, but I do remember the deathly grip which was laid
upon me and the fight which I knew was to the death. I cannot explain
why, but life never was so dear to me as at that moment. I felt, too, as
though Dr. Rhomboid had been somehow mistaken in his diagnosis; that
life was strong in me, but that passion was swallowed up in a greater
passion, a nobler passion--it was to render service to my country, to
save the lives of my fellow-countrymen.
Even while I struggled I saw what the success of my plans meant; what
their failure meant. I remember, too, that I wondered why the second
person I had seen took no part in the struggle; why, although there were
two who prepared to attack me, only one fought me. Yet such was the
case; it was man to man. Who the man was I was not sure, although I had
a dim consciousness that I was fighting with the man Liddicoat; neither
had I any clear conception as to the meaning of that deadly struggle;
all the same, I knew that I must struggle till I had mastered him. I did
not remember the precautions I had taken or the agencies I had set on
foot; everything was swallowed up in the one thought--I must master the
man who I was sure meant to kill me.
How long the encounter lasted I have not the remotest idea; indeed, as I
think of it now, I was robbed of all human personality. I was simply
Fate, and as Fate I must accomplish my purpose, heedless of everything.
I fancied that I was gaining the upper hand of him; fancied, too, that
others were coming upon the scene of action; but of this I was not sure,
for a great darkness came upon me suddenly, and I knew nothing more.
XXVII
VISION