THE "FOX-HOLE"
"They really believe you're out of England. You're quite sure of that?"
questioned Brockman, in his thick, guttural voice.
"As sure of it as you're standing there," answered Zuker. "The search
for me went on actively for a fortnight, and then dropped. How should
they suspect a hiding-place like this? How should they suspect that when
the hounds were in full chase of the fox, he had a hole to retreat to
where they could never follow?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled Brockman; "we ought to call it the Fox-Hole. I only
wish we had the youngster in it who slipped through my fingers that
night on the road to Redmead."
"Do you really?" said Paul to himself. "Well, the youngster's obliged
you, and yet you don't seem to be grateful to him."
"_Zut! zut!_ Don't worry about him. He's only a cipher--a pawn in the
great game we have in hand. If we win, it'll be for a prize worth
winning--fame and fortune," went on Zuker, as he strode to and fro with
rapid strides. "Yes, fame and fortune, and we shall have dealt a
staggering blow at a country that we hate. The risk is great, but the
stakes are greater still, and each day makes our position surer."
"Surer? Do you think so? Sometimes it seems to me, master, that we're
standing on the very edge of a deep precipice, and that one day we shall
make a false step, and then----"
Brockman did not finish the sentence, but gave a significant shrug of
the shoulders which was much more eloquent than words.
"Das ist recht--that is right; I have never hidden from you the danger.
It is true that one false step might spoil all my plans, but that only
makes the game more worth the winning. And listen, Brockman, we must not
make that false step. We made one on that night we let the boy get
through with the cipher to Redmead. We must not make another."
Paul's ears tingled as he listened. Notwithstanding the peril in which
he stood, his heart beat with joy. The words of Mr. Moncrief came back
to him: "You have not only done a great service for me and my brother,
Paul, but for your country." He had almost forgotten those words in the
whirl of events that had since happened at Garside, but now they came
flashing back, shining out vividly as a beacon in the darkness around
him.
"No; we must not make another," answered Brockman, sending his fist
vigorously into the palm of his hand to emphasize his words. There was
silence between the two for a moment, then it was again broken by Zuker.
"Those ancestors of yours were dull dogs, Brockman, but there must have
been some grit in them to have got up to Chatham. See, they got to this
point." Paul could see that a chart was spread out upon the table, and
that Zuker was pointing with his finger to a place on it. "Here is the
River Medway, which, as you know, can be reached through this tunnel."
The river through that tunnel! Was he awake or dreaming? Paul could
scarcely believe the evidence of his ears. His heart thumped so loudly
against his ribs that he feared the conspirators might hear him.
"A chain had been drawn across the river, for all England was in a state
of alarm at the approach of the Dutchmen," went on Zuker.
"Fortifications had been added to Sheerness and Upnor Castle just here."
Brockman bent over the chart and followed the finger of Zuker.
"Just there. And the chain--what happened to the chain?"
"Sheerness was first taken, and then, taking advantage of a spring tide
and an easterly wind, the Dutch broke the chain."
"Broke it? But wasn't it fortified?"
"It was guarded by three ships, but the Dutch took them. They played
havoc with several other vessels, and advanced with six men-o'-war and
five fireships as far as Upnor Castle, where they burned three more.
That was good, wasn't it?"
"Splendid! Real pluck! Dull dogs and slow, as you say, but real grit.
I'm proud of my Dutch fore-fathers."
It was clear that Brockman, if not himself a Dutchman, was of Dutch
descent.
"The Dutch," continued Zuker, "then fell down the Medway--see, in this
direction." His finger again went to work over the chart. "They sailed
next to Portsmouth; they assaulted Harwich, and then sailed again up the
Thames as far as Tilbury--this point here--where they were repulsed.
What has been done once can be done again. Why not?"
Zuker, in his excitement, strode over in the direction of the curtain.
Paul drew back and waited. Had he seen the curtain move? Did he suspect
there was a listener behind? For a moment Paul scarcely breathed. Then
he heard Zuker pacing back to the table, and breathed freely again.
"You forget the difference in the times," answered Brockman. "Then there
were no ironclads."
"I'm forgetting nothing. Ironclads are useless without the brains behind
them. Battles nowadays are won not so much on the battlefield as by the
Intelligence Department--the Secret Service"--his voice went almost to a
whisper--"the service to which you and I belong."
A cold feeling of horror and repulsion stole over Paul as he listened.
He felt as he might have felt in listening to the rattle of a deadly
snake. These men were in the Secret Service of another country--spies,
collecting material for the enemy--material which might be used at any
time with deadly effect against England, dear old England! And as he
looked, a mist seemed to rise before him, and suddenly out of the mist
he saw a strange picture--the cabin of a ship, a man bending over a
dispatch-box, and rapidly turning over the papers within. Then the door
of the cabin opened. An officer, with a bronzed, noble face swiftly
entered, and seized the spy at the dispatch-box. The spy threw himself
at the officer's feet and pleaded for mercy. Paul saw it all as clearly
as though it were on a screen before him. Looking at the spy's face, he
knew it for Zuker. Looking at the officer's face, he knew it for his
father's.
As the scene faded, he felt that he, too, must spring out on Zuker and
denounce him. "Spy--traitor! You're the man who tried to betray my
father! You are the man who would betray Britain!" By some impulse over
which he had no control he tried to shriek out the words. His lips
moved, but fortunately no sound came from them.
The next instant he was brought to his senses by the sound of
footsteps--footsteps in the tunnel by which he had entered. Instantly he
realized the position in which he stood. The new-comer, whoever he was,
was probably a confederate of the two spies inside, and would be bound
to pass into the cave through the curtain behind which he was hidden.
Quick as thought he retreated a pace or two, well out of the light of
the lamps, and drew himself close up to the wall.
Nearer and nearer came the footsteps. Presently Paul could just see the
shadowy outline of a man's figure. Then he passed him, coming so close
that his coat brushed against him. The figure paused. Paul held his
breath, and for one brief instant thought that he had been discovered.
The next, the curtain was lifted aside, and the new-comer passed inside
the cave.
"Ah, Weevil! What news?" came the voice of Zuker.
Weevil! Paul crept again to the curtain, and peered through the side. It
was the master, sure enough. He wore a cape, with the collar turned up
and buttoned tight round the chin.
"Still the same," answered the master.
"No change?"
"No change to speak of. Sometimes he's a little better; then he goes
back again, and is worse. Poor little chap! it makes my heart bleed to
see him."
Then Paul knew they were speaking of Hibbert.
"Your heart! What of mine?" exclaimed the man fiercely. "You always
speak as though you were the only one who cared for the boy. And a lot
of good you've done for him. It was through you I had him trained as an
English boy. His mother was English, said you. It was through you he
went to Garside, because you could take greater care of him, said you.
What care? Himmel, himmel! You let those imps of Satan torture him;
through you he has been brought to the door of death."
"Cease, man--cease to torture me!" cried the master.
Paul listened in wonder, not unmixed with awe. He had heard that note of
anguish in the master's voice before--on that night when he had seen him
by Hibbert's bed; but the face, with the light of the lamp flickering on
it, might have been hewn from the limestone. It was as stern and rigid
as Fate itself.
"I have no wish to torture you; but it sickens me to hear you speak
about that boy as though it were no concern of mine--as though you were
the only one who cared for him. I tell you again, I was a fool to let
him go to Garside."
No answer came for a few moments. It seemed as though Mr. Weevil were
struggling with his feelings. When he at length spoke, his voice was
calm again. It had resumed that calm, deliberate tone with which Paul
was so familiar.
"I would like to speak to you for a few minutes alone, Israel."
Brockman took the hint, and retreating at the other entrance of the
cave, left the two together.
"I wished to speak with you alone, because I have discovered one or two
matters which will interest you. You were struck, you may remember, with
the name of the boy who saved Tim's life?"
"Yes; what of it?"
"You thought that he might be the son of that Captain Percival who years
ago saved your life at the risk of his own. I knew that the boy's father
was dead, and on examination of the school-books, I found that he was a
naval officer. I was not aware of the circumstances under which he met
his death, however. I have since discovered that he was drowned at sea
'whilst trying to save the life of a spy'--pardon me the word, but so
the record runs."
"_Ach!_ Is it possible?" came hoarsely from Zuker's lips. "I had my
suspicions when I first questioned him."
Paul pressed his ear closer to the side of the curtain. He was anxious
not to lose a word of what was spoken, for he knew that he was "the boy"
to whom the master was referring; that "Tim" was, of course, Hibbert.
"I have discovered, further, that it was this same boy--Paul
Percival--who got through with that letter to Redmead."
"The same? Ach Himmel! I caught but a glimpse of him in the darkness
that night."
"The hand of a Higher than man is in it. You cannot escape it. Be warned
in time. Give up this scheme of yours; if not for your own sake, for the
sake of your son."
"Give up the scheme--the scheme for which I have worked so long. The
scheme which, day by day, brings me nearer to fame and fortune. You talk
like a madman. It is more to me than life itself--more to me than the
life of fifty sons!"
A cry of pain came from Mr. Weevil's lips.
"I know you well enough--you have no love for my scheme. Your heart is
in what you call science, and in the boy. You wish to frighten
me--frighten me from the work which every day draws nearer to success.
Shall I tell you what for? So as to drive me back to the Fatherland that
you may keep all to yourself, my boy--the boy of your dead sister. Ach!
I see through your scheming!"
"Hush, man--hush! Is it to hear reproaches from your lips that I have
risked so much--that I have involved myself in these schemes of yours
which may mean my ruin?" Mr. Weevil's voice was stern, fearless; but as
quickly turned to a softer key. "Let us not quarrel, Israel. Heaven
forbid that we should quarrel over the boy whom we both love in our own
peculiar way. Remember that his life is still in jeopardy."
They shook hands, and then Mr. Weevil turned towards the curtain behind
which Paul was hidden.