THE UNDENIABLE FORCE
Lavendale drew a deep sigh of content as he withdrew his eyes
reluctantly from the glittering phantasmagoria of the city, stretching
away below like a fire-spangled carpet. He leaned back in his chair
and raised his glass to his lips.
'No doubt about my being an American born, Moreton,' he observed. 'The
first night in New York is always a real home-coming to me. And this
is New York, isn't it?' he went on, musingly, 'city of steel and iron,
typical, indescribable.'
Jim Moreton, an erstwhile college friend and now a prosperous lawyer,
nodded sympathetically.
'We are right in the heart of things here,' he assented. 'Nothing like
a roof garden round about Broadway, to see us at home. I wonder
whether you noticed any change?' he went on. 'They tell us that we get
more European every year in our love of pleasure and luxury.'
Lavendale glanced around at the many little groups dining on the
twenty-eighth storey of a famous hotel, under the light of the big,
yellow moon. The table illuminations, and the row of electric lights
which ran along the parapet, seemed strangely insignificant.
Everywhere was a loud murmur of conversation, punctuated by much
feminine laughter, the incessant popping of corks, the music of the not
too insistent band.
'I tell you, Jimmy,' he confided, leaning forward towards his friend,
'to look into the faces of these people is the greatest relief I have
known for twelve months. Just at first, when war broke out, one didn't
notice much change, in England especially, but latterly there has been
no mistaking it. Wherever you went, in the streets or the restaurants,
you could see the writing in the faces of the people, a sort of dumb
repression of feeling, just as though they were trying to get through
the task of every-day life because they had to, eating and drinking
because they had to, talking, amusing themselves, even, with an absent
feverishness all the time--unnatural. I tell you it's like being in
some sort of a dream to be in London or Paris to-day. It's only
to-night I've felt myself back amongst real men and women again, and
it's good.'
Moreton nodded understandingly.
'A fellow was writing something of the sort in one of the Sunday papers
last week,' he remarked. 'Over here, of course, the whole thing to us
is simply pictorial. We don't realize or appreciate what is happening.
We can't.'
'And yet some day,' Lavendale sighed, 'we shall have to go through it
ourselves.'
'One of your Harvard theories cropping up again!'
'It's more than a theory now--it's a certainty,' Lavendale insisted.
'One doesn't need to brood, though. There's plenty of real life
buzzing around us all the time. Do you know why I sent you that
wireless, Jim?'
'Not an idea on earth,' the other admitted. 'I guess I was conceited
enough to hope that you wanted to see me again.'
'That's so, anyway,' Lavendale assured him, 'and you know it, but apart
from that I want you to do something for me. I want to meet your
uncle.'
'I'll do what I can,' Moreton promised, a little dubiously. 'He isn't
the easiest person to get at, as you know.'
'Where is he now?' Lavendale inquired.
'I haven't had a line from him or my aunt for months,' Moreton replied,
'but the papers say he is coming to New York to-night.'
'Is there anything in these sensational reports about his new
discovery?' Lavendale asked eagerly.
'I shouldn't be surprised,' the other confessed. 'There is no doubt
that he is giving up his laboratories and closing down in the country.
He told me himself, last time I saw him, that the thing he'd been
working at, off and on, for the last thirty years, was in his hands at
last, perfect. He's through with inventing--that's how he put it to
me. He is going to spend the rest of his days reading dime novels in
the mornings and visiting cinemas in the afternoons--says his brain's
tired.'
'I shouldn't wonder at that,' Lavendale observed. 'He was seventy-two
last year, wasn't he? I wonder how long he'll keep his word, though.'
'He seems in earnest. He has been very cranky lately, and they were
all terrified down at Lakeside that he'd blow the whole place up.'
'You don't know any particulars about this last invention, I suppose?'
'If I did,' Moreton declared with a little laugh, 'I could have had my
weight in dollars from the newspaper men alone. No, I know nothing
whatever about it. All I can promise is that I'll take you up to
Riverside Drive and do my best to boost you in. Now tell me what
you've been doing with yourself this year, Ambrose? You've left the
Diplomatic Service, haven't you?'
'Not altogether. I have a sort of unofficial position at the Embassy,
perhaps as important as my last one, only not quite so prominent.'
'Still as great a scaremonger as ever? Do you remember those
discussions you used to start at the debating society?'
'I remember them all right,' Lavendale assented grimly, 'and since you
ask me the question, let me tell you this, Jim. I've lived, as you
know, during the last seven years in the diplomatic atmosphere of
Paris, of London and Berlin. I tell you soberly that anything I felt
and believed in those days, I feel and believe twice as strongly
to-day. Just look over your left shoulder, Jimmy. Isn't that rather a
queer-looking couple for a fashionable roof-garden!'
Moreton turned a little lazily around. An elderly man and woman who
had just entered were being shown to an adjacent table. The man was
apparently of some seventy years of age, his morning clothes were of
old-fashioned cut and he wore only a little wisp of black tie. His
grey beard was cut in the fashion of a century ago, his bushy hair was
long and unkempt. His companion, who seemed but a few years younger,
wore the simplest of dark travelling clothes, some jet jewellery, a
huge cameo brooch fastened a shawl at her throat and she carried a
leather handbag.
'Don't they look as though they'd come out of the ark!' Lavendale
murmured.
Moreton had risen slowly to his feet.
'Queer thing that you should spot them, Ambrose,' he remarked. 'This
is what you might call something of a coincidence.'
'You don't mean to say that you know them?'
Jim Moreton nodded.
'My Uncle Ned and my Aunt Bessie,' he said. 'I must go and speak to
them.'
He crossed towards the elderly couple, shook hands with the man, who
greeted him cordially enough, and submitted to an embrace from the
lady. Lavendale could hear, every now and then, scraps of their
conversation. Towards its close, his friend turned and beckoned to
him. Lavendale, who had been eagerly awaiting a summons, rose at once
and approached the trio.
'Aunt,' Moreton explained, laying his hand upon his friend's shoulder,
'this is Mr. Ambrose Lavendale, a graduate of my year at Harvard.
Uncle, Lavendale has just returned from Europe and he was talking to me
about you. He is like the rest of us, tremendously interested in what
all the world is saying about you and your latest discovery.'
Lavendale shook hands with the elderly couple, who greeted him kindly.
'Discovery, eh?' Mr. Moreton observed jocularly.
'That does seem rather an inadequate word,' Lavendale admitted. 'I
think one of your own newspapers here declared that you had learnt how
to bottle up the lightnings, to----'
'Oh, those damned papers!' Mr. Moreton exclaimed irritably. 'Don't
talk to me about them, young fellow.'
'I would much rather talk to you about what they are aiming at,'
Lavendale said simply. 'Are you going to give any demonstration,
sir--I mean, of course, to the scientific world?'
The inventor glanced up at his questioner with a little twinkle in his
hard, blue eyes.
'Say, you've some nerve, young fellow!' he declared amiably. 'However,
I am very fond of my nephew here, and if you're a friend of Jim's you
shall be one of a very select company to-morrow morning. The
scientific world can wait, but I am going to set the minds of the
newspaper people at rest. I am going to show them what I can do. I
was thinking of asking you, any way, Jim,' he went on, 'and you can
bring your friend with you. Twelve o'clock at Riverside Drive.'
The two young men were both profuse in their thanks. Mr. Moreton waved
them away. 'There will be just three or four newspaper men,' he
continued--'I put the names of the principal papers into a bottle and
drew lots; the reporters who came down to Jersey State agreed to
that--you two, your aunt and a young lady. You can go and finish your
dinner now, boys. Your aunt and I, Jim, are going on to a cinema
afterwards. We're going to make a real night of it.'
The two young men shook hands and made their adieux. As soon as they
had resumed their places, Lavendale leaned across the table towards his
friend with glowing face.
'Jimmy, you're a brick,' he declared. 'We'll have another bottle on
the strength of this. The very night I arrive, too! Whoever heard of
such luck! I don't suppose I should ever have got within a hundred
yards of him but for you.'
'He's a shy old bird,' Moreton admitted. 'We certainly were in luck
to-night though.'
'I wonder who the girl is who's going to be there,' Lavendale remarked
idly.
His eyes had suddenly strayed once more over the brilliant yet uneasy
panorama of flashing lights, huge buildings, the throbbing and clanging
of cars across the distant line of the river to the blue spaces beyond.
The leader of the little orchestra behind was playing a familiar waltz.
Suzanne and he had danced it together one night in London. He was for
a moment oblivious of the whole gamut of his surroundings. The world
closed in upon him. He heard her voice, felt the touch of her fingers,
saw a gleam of the tenderness which sometimes flashed out from beneath
the suffering of her eyes. His friend glanced at him in wonder. It
was the insistent voice of a waiter which brought him back from his
reverie.
'French or Turkish coffee, sir?'
Lavendale made a heedless choice and climbed down to the present.
'Way back somewhere, weren't you?' Jim Moreton remarked.
His friend nodded.
'I have left behind a great deal that one remembers.'
* * * * *
At a few minutes before twelve on the following morning, Lavendale and
his friend were conducted by a coloured butler across a very
magnificent entrance hall of black and white marble, strewn with
wonderful rugs, through several suites of reception rooms, and out on
to a broad stone piazza, at the back of Mr. Moreton's mansion in
Riverside Drive. It was here that Lavendale received one of the
surprises of his life. Mr. and Mrs. Moreton were reclining in low
wicker chairs, and between them, a miracle of daintiness in her white
linen costume and plain black hat, was--Suzanne. Lavendale forgot his
manners, forgot the tremendous interest of his visit, forgot everything
else in the world. He stood quite still for a moment. Then he strode
forward with outstretched hands and a very visible gladness in his face.
'Suzanne!' he exclaimed. 'Why, how wonderful!'
She laughed at him gaily as she accepted his greeting. There was some
response to his joy shining out of her eyes, but it was obvious that
his presence was less of a surprise to her.
'You did not know that I was here?' she asked. 'But why not? Men and
women have travelled many times round the world before now to learn its
secrets.'
Lavendale recovered a little of his self-possession. He shook hands
with Mrs. Moreton, who was beaming placidly upon them, mutely approving
of this unexpected romance. The great inventor turned him round by the
shoulder and indicated four men of varying ages who formed the rest of
the little company.
'I will not introduce you by name,' he said, 'but these four gentlemen,
selected by lot, as I think I told you last night, represent the
mightiest and holiest power on earth--the great, never-to-be-denied
Press of America. They are here because, since the first rumour stole
from my laboratory down in Jersey State that I had reached the end of
my labours, I have been the victim of an incessant and turbulent siege,
carried on relentlessly day by day--I might almost say hour by hour.
For good reasons I desired to keep my discovery to myself a little
longer, but I know that I am beaten, and these gentlemen, or rather the
power which they represent, have been too many for me. My country
household has been honeycombed with spies. My medical man, my
gardener, the assistants in my laboratory, have every one of them been
made the objects of subtle and repeated attempts at bribery. Young Mr.
Lavendale, let me tell you this--the Press of America to-day is the one
undeniable force. Look at them--my conquerors. I am going to present
them to-day with my secret--not willingly, mind, but because, if I do
not yield, they will continue to eat with me, to sleep with me and to
walk with me, to plague my days and curse my nights. This young lady,'
he continued, in an altered tone, 'came to me with a personal letter
from my cousin, our Ambassador in Paris. You, Mr. Lavendale, are here
as my nephew's friend. Now, if you are ready, I will proceed with the
demonstration.'
The four men had risen to their feet. One of them, a well-set-up,
handsome young fellow, shook hands with Lavendale.
'I was a year before you at Harvard, wasn't I?' he remarked. 'We think
that Mr. Moreton is just a little hard upon us. We represent, to use
his own words, the undeniable force, and to do it we have to forget
that we are human, and persist. This may be very annoying to Mr.
Moreton, but as a rule it is the world that benefits.'
The inventor, who had disappeared for a moment in the interior of the
room which led out on to the piazza, suddenly stood upon the threshold.
His face seemed to have become graver during the last few moments and
he motioned them impatiently back to their places. Then, with a reel
of what seemed to be fine wire in his hand, he made his way to the
further end of the broad balcony which completely encircled the house,
and carefully stretched a length of the wire from the edge of the
building to the stone balustrade. As soon as he had accomplished this,
he drew from his pockets what appeared to be a pair of black gloves of
some spongy material, and a tiny instrument about the size of a lady's
watch, which none of them could see. He drew on the gloves with great
care, placed the instrument between the palms of his hands and turned
to his nephew.
'Just ring the bell there, will you, Jimmy?' he directed.
The young man obeyed. The little group now were all standing up, their
eyes fixed upon that strip of thin wire. Mr. Moreton slowly drew his
palms together several times, pausing once to glance at the small
instrument which lay concealed between them. Footsteps were heard
approaching around the side of the house, and a coloured servant in
livery, carrying a tray in his hand, appeared. He had no sooner set
his foot upon the wire than he stopped short, gave a wild jump into the
air, came down again, jumped again, and slowly, with the salver still
in his hand, began to dance.
'Touch the bell,' the inventor ordered, in a voice which seemed tense
with suppressed emotion.
His nephew obeyed at once and again there were footsteps. Another
servant, carrying a chair, came round the corner, paused for a moment
as though in amazement on perceiving the antics of his predecessor,
stepped on to the wire, leapt into the air, and commenced to perform
almost similar gyrations. Mr. Moreton's breath was coming fast and he
seemed to be the victim of some peculiar emotion. This time he only
glanced towards the bell, which his nephew pushed. Again there were
footsteps. A third servant, with a box of cigars, appeared, gave a
little exclamation at the extraordinary sight before him, stepped
forward on to the wire, leapt up till his head almost touched the
sloping portico, and commenced throwing the cigars into the air and
catching them. Mr. Moreton glanced from the three performers towards
his little audience. The expression on their faces was absolutely
indescribable. Meanwhile, the dancing of the three men in livery
became more rapid. The man with the salver and glasses began throwing
them into the air and catching them again, the servant on the outside
was now occupied in balancing a cigar on the tip of his nose, while his
neighbour on the right was twirling the wicker chair which he had been
carrying, on the point of his forefinger. Mr. Moreton stretched out
his hand towards the spellbound, stupefied little company.
'The Hamlin Trio, gentlemen, of jugglers and dancers, imported from the
Winter Gardens at great expense for your entertainment! Good morning!'
With one bound he was through the window. They heard the bolt slipped
into its place. From behind the glass he turned and waved his hand to
the newspaper men. Then he disappeared.
'Spoofed, my God!' the journalist who had spoken to Lavendale,
exclaimed.
For a single moment they all looked at one another. The trio of
entertainers were redoubling now their efforts. There was a roar of
laughter.
'The joke's on us,' one of the other newspaper men admitted candidly,
'but what a story! We'd better get along and write it, you fellows,'
he added, 'before they have it up against us.'
'Is there any chance,' a third man inquired, 'of Mr. Moreton talking to
us reasonably?'
His wife beamed placidly upon them.
'Not one chance in this life,' she assured them. 'If you knew the
language poor dear Ned has used about you gentlemen of the Press
worrying him down at Lakeside during the last few months, you'd only
wonder that he has let you off so lightly.'
'Then perhaps,' Lavendale's acquaintance suggested, 'we'd better be
getting along.'
The Hamlin Trio, at the other end of the piazza, suddenly ceased their
labours, made a collective bow and disappeared. The newspaper men
still lingered, looking longingly at the bolted window. Mrs. Moreton
shook her head.
'Just leave him alone for a little time,' she begged. 'He has got a
down on you newspaper gentlemen, and the way they worried him down at
New Jersey has pretty well driven him crazy. Don't try him any more
this morning, if you please,' she persisted. 'It's my belief this
little joke he's played on you kept him out of the hospital.'
The silvery-haired old lady, with her earnest eyes and the little
quaver in her tone, triumphed. The little company reluctantly
dispersed. Lavendale and Suzanne were on the point of following the
others when a head was thrust cautiously out of a window on the second
storey of the house.
'Has the Press of the United States departed?' Mr. Moreton inquired.
'They've all gone, dear,' his wife called out soothingly.
'Then bring the others in to luncheon,' Mr. Moreton invited.
'I'll bring them in right away,' Mrs. Moreton promised. 'Say, that's a
good sign, young people,' she added, turning to them cheerfully. 'He
has hated the sight of company lately, but I did feel real
uncomfortable at sending you away without any offer of hospitality. He
has locked this window fast enough,' she added, trying it, 'but come
right along with me and I'll show you another way in.'
They followed her along the piazza. Lavendale and Suzanne fell a
little way behind. It was their first opportunity.
'How long have you been here?' he asked eagerly. 'What did you come
for? Why didn't you let me know?'
'I have been in New York four days,' she told him. 'I was on the _City
of Paris_. We passed you near Queenstown. As for the rest, I suppose
I am here for the same reason that you are. Monsieur Senn, the great
electrician, has been working on the same lines as Moreton for years,
and he persuaded me to get a letter from the American Ambassador in
Paris and come out here. I do not suppose, though, that it is any use.
They say that Mr. Moreton is like you--American inventions for the
American people.'
'I've wobbled once or twice,' he reminded her.
'Of course, there's always a chance,' she murmured.
'Say that you are glad to see me?' he begged.
She gave his hand a little squeeze. Then Mrs. Moreton turned round
with a motherly smile.
'If you'll take your cocktail in the smoking-room with Jimmy, Mr.
Lavendale,' she said, 'I'll look after Miss de Freyne.' ...
Luncheon was a meal of unexpected simplicity, served by a couple of
trim waiting-maids in a magnificent apartment which overlooked the
Hudson. Mr. Moreton was in high good-humour over his latest exploit,
and they all indulged in speculations as to the nature of the stories
which would appear in the evening editions. Underneath his hilarity,
however, Lavendale more than once fancied that he noted signs of an
immense tension. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, the great
inventor would break off as though he had lost the thread of what he
had been saying, and look uneasily, almost supplicatingly around him
until some one supplied him with the context of his speech. Towards
the end of the meal, after a brief silence, he turned with curious
abruptness towards Lavendale.
'Say, you've come a long way to see nothing, young man,' he remarked.
'I have had the pleasure of meeting you, sir,' Lavendale replied
politely, 'and, after all, I never believed the things they were saying
in London.'
'What were they saying?' Mr. Moreton demanded brusquely.
'There was a report there when I left,' Lavendale answered, 'that you
had learnt at last the secret of handling electricity by wireless,
handling it, I mean, in destructive fashion.'
'Oh! they said that, did they?' Mr. Moreton observed, smiling to
himself.
'To be absolutely exact,' Lavendale went on, 'they said that you had
professed to discover it. A great scientific man whom I met only a few
days before I left England, however--Sir Hubert Bowden--assured me that
mine would be a wasted journey because the thing was impossible.'
A suddenly changed man sat in Mr. Moreton's place. The unhealthy
pallor of his skin was disfigured by dark red, almost purple patches.
His eyes were like glittering beads. He struck the table fiercely with
his hairy fist.
'Bowden is an ass!' he exclaimed. 'He is an ignorant numskull, a
dabbler, a blind follower in other men's footsteps. Impossible to
me--Moreton?'
'My dear! My dear!' his wife murmured anxiously from the other end of
the table.
The inventor turned to one of the servants.
'Telephone to the garage for the car to be here in ten minutes,' he
ordered. 'I have had my little joke,' he went on, as the girl left the
room. 'This afternoon we'll get to business.'
His fury seemed to pass away as suddenly as it had come. He ate and
drank nervously but with apparent appetite. As soon as the meal was
over he commenced smoking a black cigar, and, excusing himself rather
abruptly, left the room.
'Do you suppose,' Lavendale asked his hostess, 'that he is really going
to give us a demonstration?'
'I don't know,' she answered uneasily. 'I wish I could get him
somewhere right away from every one who talks about inventions and
electricity. You put his back up, you know, Mr. Lavendale. He was
quite all right before you handed him that sort of challenge.'
'I am sorry,' Lavendale murmured mendaciously.
In a few minutes they received an urgent summons. They found Mr.
Moreton waiting in a large, open car below. He had quite recovered his
temper. His face, indeed, shone with the benign expression of a child
on its way to a treat.
'Miss de Freyne and Mr. Lavendale, you can sit by my side,' he ordered.
'Jimmy, you get up in front. The man knows where to go.'
They swung round and in a few minutes turned into Central Park. At a
spot where the road curved rather abruptly, the car came to a
standstill. Mr. Moreton stepped out. From his pocket he drew a small
skein of what seemed to be white silk, and a tiny instrument with a
dial face and perforated with several holes.
'Hold that,' he directed Lavendale.
The latter obeyed. Mr. Moreton drew the thread of white silk backwards
and forwards through one of the apertures in the instrument, the finger
on the dial face mounting all the time from zero. When it reached a
certain figure he drew it out, and, stooping down, stretched it across
the path from the hedge to the curbstone. Then he glanced up and down
and around the corner. The park was almost deserted and there were
only a few loungers in sight. From the small bag which he had brought
with him in the car, Mr. Moreton next produced a square black box with
a handle in the side, and a pair of black indiarubber gloves which he
hastily donned. Then, with the box in his hand, he turned the handle
which protruded from its side. A queer, buzzing little sound came from
the interior, a sound which, low though it was, thrilled Lavendale from
its utter and mysterious novelty. It was a sound such as he had never
imagined, a sound like the grumblings of belittled and imprisoned
thunder. The finger on the dial moved slowly. When it had reached a
certain point, Mr. Moreton paused. He clasped the machine tightly in
his hands. The mutterings still continued, and from a tiny opening
underneath came little flashes of blue fire. The inventor stepped into
the car, motioning the others to follow him, and gave an order to the
driver. They backed to a spot by the side of the road, about a hundred
yards away from where the thread of white silk lay stretched across the
pavement. Mr. Moreton gripped the instrument in his rubber-clad hand
and leaned back in the car, his eyes fixed upon the corner. His
expression had become calmer, almost seraphic.
'We shall see now,' he promised them, smiling, 'another land of dance.
There is only one thing I should like to point out. The little
instrument I hold in my hand now is adjusted to any distance up to two
hundred yards. By turning the handle a dozen more times, the distance
could be increased to a mile, and more in proportion. The length of my
silk-covered wire is immaterial. It could stretch, if desired, from
here to Broadway. Now watch.'
They all sat with their eyes fastened upon the corner of the pathway.
A slight uneasiness which Lavendale in particular had felt, was almost
banished by a thrilling sense of expectancy. Suddenly a portly figure
appeared, a policeman whom they had passed soon after entering the
park. He approached with his hands behind him, walking in ruminating
fashion. Suddenly, as his foot touched the thread, he came to a halt.
There was something unnatural in his momentarily statuesque attitude.
Then, before their eyes he seemed to stiffen, fell like a log on his
right side, with his head in the roadway. His helmet rolled a few feet
away. The man remained motionless. Lavendale sprang to his feet but
Mr. Moreton pushed him back.
'That is of no consequence,' he said softly. 'Wait for a moment.'
Lavendale even then would have obeyed his instinct and jumped from the
car, but his limbs seemed powerless. A man and a girl, arm in arm,
appeared round the corner. Suzanne stood up. A strange, hysterical
impulse seized her and she tried to shout. Her voice sounded like the
feeblest whimper. The two lovers, as their feet touched the thread,
seemed suddenly to break off in their conversation. It was as though
the words themselves were arrested upon their lips, as though all
feeling and movement had become paralyzed. Then they, too, stiffened
and fell in the same direction. A park-keeper, who had seen the
collapse of the policeman, came running across the road, shouting all
the time, and an automobile which had been crawling along, increased
its speed and raced to the spot. Mr. Moreton touched a button in the
instrument which he was holding. The thunder died away and the blue
flashes ceased. Suzanne leaned back in the car; her cheeks were as
pale as death. Lavendale bent over her.
'It's all right, Suzanne,' he assured her. 'Sit here while I go down.
There is nothing wrong with those people really. It's just another of
Mr. Moreton's little jokes.'
Nevertheless, when Lavendale's feet touched the ground he gave a little
cry, for the earth seemed quaking around him. Mr. Moreton, who was
walking by his side, patted him on the shoulder.
'Steady, my boy! Steady!' he said. 'You see, the whole of the earth
between here and that little thread of white silk is heavily charged.
You feel, don't you, as though the ground were rising up and were going
to hit you in the chin. I've grown used to it. There goes poor Jimmy.
Dear me, he hasn't the nerve of a chicken!'
Young Moreton fell over in a dead faint. Lavendale set his teeth and
staggered on. A little crowd was already gathering around the three
prostrate bodies as they drew near.
'You see,' Mr. Moreton explained reassuringly, 'I have broken the
connection now. Nothing more will happen.'
'What of those three--the policeman, the man and the girl?' Lavendale
faltered.
Mr. Moreton patted him on the back. They had reached now the outskirts
of the little group.
'Theirs,' he said gravely, 'was the real dance. You have been
fortunate, young man. Your journey from Europe has been worth while,
after all. You have seen the Hamlin Trio in their Jugglers' Dance, and
you have seen here in the sunshine, under the green trees, with all the
dramatic environment possible, the greatest dance of all--the dance of
death.'
Lavendale felt the blood once more flowing freely in his veins. He
turned almost fiercely upon his companion as he pushed his way through
the gathering crowd.
'You don't mean that they are really dead?' he cried.
'Even your wonderful friend Bowden,' Mr. Moreton assured him sweetly,
'could never wake a single beat in their hearts again.'
An ambulance had just glided up. A man who seemed to be a doctor rose
to his feet, shaking the dust from his knees.
'These three people are dead,' he pronounced sombrely. 'The symptoms
are inexplicable.'
He suddenly recognized Moreton, who held out his hand genially towards
him.
'Dr. Praxton, is it not?' he remarked. 'It is very fortunate that I
should have so reliable a witness upon the spot. I shall be obliged,
doctor, if you will take the bodies of these fortunate people into your
keeping and prepare a careful examination of their condition.'
'Do you know anything about their death?' the doctor asked.
The great inventor smiled in a superior fashion.
'Why, my dear fellow, yes!' he assented. 'I killed them. You see that
little skein of what seems to be white silk? If a million people had
trodden upon it, one after the other, or if I in my car had been twenty
miles away, with my instrument properly regulated, there would still be
a million dead lying here. I am Moreton--Ned Moreton, the inventor,
you know, doctor. I can strip the universe of life, if I choose. I
should have liked,' he added, glancing a little peevishly over his
shoulder, 'the young lady to have seen this. I shall make a point of
her coming on to the hospital.'
The doctor glanced meaningly at the two or three policemen who had
forced their way to the front. They led Mr. Moreton back to the car,
and a few minutes later he was driven off, seated between them, smoking
a cigar, the picture of amiability. Suzanne and Lavendale found a
taxicab and left the park by another exit. She sat close to him,
clinging to his arm.
'Suzanne,' he whispered, 'can you be a woman now for the sake of the
great things?'
She sat up by his side. Her face was marble white, but some latent
force seemed to have asserted itself. She answered him steadily.
'Go on, Ambrose,' she begged. 'I can listen. Do not be afraid.'
'I have told this man,' he continued, 'to drive to the docks. The
_Marabic_ is sailing at five o'clock.'
She looked at him for a moment as though she failed to understand. His
arm tightened around her.
'I have the instruments and a skein of the thread in my pocket,' he
whispered.
A sudden light flashed in her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him
firmly and deliberately upon the lips.
'You are a man, Ambrose,' she declared. 'Do not be afraid. We are
allies, is it not so?'
'In this, yes!' he promised her....
Two hours later, as they moved slowly down the river, the tugs
shrieking in front of them, and siren whistles blowing on every side,
they examined for the first time, in the security of Lavendale's
state-room, their new treasures--the black, camera-like instrument, the
smaller one, with its dial face, and a little skein of the white,
silk-covered wire. They both gazed at them almost in
stupefaction--harmless-looking objects, silent, dead things.
'Only think,' she whispered, clutching his arm, 'we have but to learn
their secret and we can end the war!'
Lavendale hid them away and silently they stole up on deck. They heard
the engines quicken their beat, saw the great buildings of the city
fade into an evening mist. They saw the lights shoot out from the
Statue of Liberty and felt the ocean breeze on their cheeks. They
turned their faces eastwards. The apprehension of great things kept
them silent. They faced the Unknown.