THE WEEK-END BEGINS
Vita stood up. The swift rise and fall of her bosom bespoke an emotion
which found added reflection in the light of her beautiful grey eyes.
Her attitude was tense. It was full of that suggestion of urgency which
straining ears ever convey. She was listening. And every muscle of her
fair body was tuned to the pitch of her nerves.
Her eyes were upon the face of a small brass lantern clock. The figures
on the dial were indistinct in the artificial light, but she read them
with ease under the influence of the emotion stirring her. The dull
metal hands were almost together. It was on the stroke of half-past six.
Her masses of red-gold hair were completely hidden under a brimless
hat, which sank low upon her head. A streaming veil fell to her
shoulders, completely covering her hat, and ready to be secured closely
about the fair oval of her anxious face. Her costume was a stout dark
coat and skirt which displayed to perfection the beauty of her tall
figure. Across the back of a chair lay a heavy overcoat of
semi-military fashioning. It was thick and warm. It was a man's coat.
The moments ticked away. Vita made no movement. The room was still; a
deathly silence reigned throughout the house. And yet, to the waiting
woman, a hundred ominous sounds blended with the solemn ticking of the
clock. The long hand was within the smallest fraction of the half-hour
point. At last she raised one long gloved hand, and the slim fingers
were pressed to the temples hidden under the enveloping hat. Her hand
was trembling.
When she removed her fingers it was with a gesture of impatience. And
the gesture was followed by swift movement. She seized the overcoat and
flung it across her arm, picked up a small hand-bag and moved towards
the door. Again she paused. Her hand was on the knob of the door. She
turned it softly and gently pulled the door ajar. Her eyes sought the
crack.
Lights were burning beyond in the wide hallway. All was still, silent;
and a deep sigh as of relaxing nerves escaped her. She opened the door
wider. It creaked, and her fine brows drew together in anxiety. Then
they smoothed again as the creaking ceased. Almost imperceptibly the
opening widened. Then, in a twinkling it seemed, she had vanished, and
the room was left empty.
As she went a door opened at the far end of the room she had left, and
a woman's dark face appeared round it. For a moment she surveyed the
empty apartment. Then she smiled softly. A moment later the face was
withdrawn and the door reclosed.
A creaking stair set panic raging through Vita's heart. The great
staircase was old--so old. She stood, scarcely daring to breathe,
wondering in what direction the betrayal would display itself. The
moments passed and no sign was given. She moved again, and, in a fever
of apprehension, she left the step and essayed another.
This time there was no alarm. She passed on down the stairs, swiftly,
stealthily. Only the dainty rustle of her skirts betrayed her
movements. This she gave no heed to. It was always with her. Therefore
it possessed no significance. The bottom of the great oak staircase was
reached. Her breathing was hurried, not with exertion, but as a result
of the nervous tension. She was relying on a man's word--a Prussian's.
She believed it honest, but---- A swift glance about the wide
hall-place, and, for a moment, her nerves eased. The man was proving as
good as his word. The doors into the various apartments were closed.
The hall was empty.
Fresh courage flowed through her veins. She tiptoed across the polished
marble, avoiding the loose rugs lest a slip might betray her. Then, in
the centre of it, she stopped dead, her heart pounding out the alarm
which had suddenly possessed her. Voices, men's voices, had reached
her. And they came from immediately beyond a pair of heavy folding
doors. She listened. The sound was slightly deadened. The doors made it
impossible to hear the words.
Quite suddenly she realized that there was not a moment to lose.
Without any further hesitation she flitted like a ghost, silently,
towards the glass swing-doors which opened upon the entrance doors.
She thrust them apart. She passed down half a dozen wide, shallow
steps. The outer doors yielded to her hand. Then she breathed the
fresh, chill night air of the valley beyond. It was good, so good. It
was the first breath of freedom. Deeply, deeply, she drank in the
delight of it.
As the door swung gently to behind her, the folding doors of the
apartment in which had sounded the men's voices were thrust apart. Von
Salzinger and Johann Stryj stood framed in the archway.
"See, there is movement in the glass doors," observed Von Salzinger.
"She has gone."
"I heard her," was the Secret Service man's cool reply.
Vita had paused only to put on the coat. Then, with skirts slightly
raised, she sped on down the drive at something approaching a run. It
was not easy in the pitch black of the night. But fear of pursuit lent
her added power, and, surmounting every difficulty, she reached the
iron gateway.
She breathed a great relief. The gates were standing open, and, away
beyond, and to the right, she beheld the reflection of light upon the
roadway.
She hurried towards it. An overwhelming flood of gratitude and
thankfulness swept over her. Von Salzinger was proving his loyalty.
Every detail was working out as he had promised. Liberty and Life. They
were sweet enough. And even the price lost something of its horror
under her new emotion.
The car was a large one. It carried three great headlights. The
chauffeur was at his wheel, and the purr of the running engines was
music to her ears. The door stood wide open, and, without demur,
without word, or a single qualm of fear, she stepped within and closed
it after her. Instantly the car rolled away.
A figure moved from the dark window of the unlit lodge. It crossed the
little room and stood against the wall. Then a groping hand pressed a
button, and in the great hall of the mansion the peal of an electric
bell rang out.
The week-end party had gathered. Saturday had been spent by the three
principal guests under Ruxton and his father's guidance at the yards.
But Ruxton had been an unimportant member of the party for the moment.
Here in the great works Sir Andrew stood supreme. His was the chief
control. His was the genius of organization. And to him these men, Sir
Joseph Caistor, Sir Reginald Steele, and the Marquis of Lordburgh,
looked for their information upon the new constructions.
It had been a day to remember for Sir Andrew. These brilliant technical
men were exacting. Their trained, searching minds displayed a wonderful
grasp of detail. There seemed to be no point too small for their
consideration. Thus the day had to be entirely given up to them. Nor
did Sir Andrew begrudge it. He was a great shipmaster, and his pride in
his yards, and all they meant in the country's labors, found him with
an almost childlike delight in his guests' interest and understanding.
Ruxton stood aloof. His thoughts and energies were concentrated
elsewhere. Frequently he absented himself for long stretches of time
together. Nor was it until their naval guests had satisfied their
desire to study the new constructions that he became a factor in the
day's affairs.
It was after the drive back to Dorby Towers that he slipped into the
arena of affairs. It occurred while tea was served in the library. He
drew Sir Joseph Caistor and Sir Reginald away from the rest of the
party, and held a long private consultation with them.
The result of the consultation was the complete disappearance of Ruxton
before dinner. He came into his father's room while the old man was in
the midst of dressing.
"They've met me in everything, Dad, and now I'm off," he announced.
The abruptness of his announcement and the unceremonious fashion of his
visit caused his father to pause in the act of adjusting his tie. He
glanced up into the dark eyes. He needed no added scrutiny. Ruxton's
eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. The smile in them was
confident, and the set of his jaws told of a determination that was
almost aggressive.
"When shall we see you again, boy?"
There was a gleam of anxiety in the deep-set eyes. But there was no
suggestion of deterring him.
Ruxton shrugged.
"I can't tell. You see, it will depend entirely on circumstances."
"Yes."
His father returned to his attack on his tie. Then he smiled.
"It was a master stroke having the two heads of the Admiralty on the
premises, also our Foreign Secretary. You left nothing to chance,
Ruxton."
"Nothing but the chances of the right or wrong of my beliefs."
The old man sighed as his tie went straight.
"Your imagination is beyond me. I could never have seen these things as
you see them. I am anxious for you."
"Don't trouble about me. Be anxious if you will, but let that anxiety
be for the woman I love, and whom I hope even after this to present to
you as your daughter. If she is safe, then--for me nothing else
matters. I have done all that is humanly possible, at least which is
possible to me. The rest is in the lap of the gods. Wish me luck, Dad,
and good-bye."
He held out his hand. In a moment it was enveloped in both of his
father's.
"With all my heart, lad. Good-bye. You will win out, I'm sure."
Then he turned again to his dressing-table and picked up his
hair-brushes. He attacked his crisply curling white hair with almost
unnecessary violence while his eyes watched the retreating figure of
his only son in the reflection of the mirror.
Sunday dawned with a clouded, watery sky. All the morning the threat of
rain held. Then, at lunch-time, a wind sprang out of the northeast, and
the atmosphere grew dry and crisp, and the clouds lightened. The grey
North Sea changed its hue to a lighter green, and at long intervals
whitecaps broke up the oily aspect. The breeze had freshened by three
o'clock and a chill swept over the moorlands, and the feel and aspect
of winter settled upon the dull-tinted landscape. As evening began to
close in the breeze dropped, and with it fell the temperature.
Two figures paced the winding footpath at the edge of the cliffs. Both
were clad in heavy civilian ulsters, and their coat-collars sheltered
the lower portions of their clean-shaven faces. In their shaded eyes
was that far-off gaze which is only to be found in the eyes of men of
the sea. It is an expression which must ever betray the man who belongs
to the sea the moment he approaches that element, which is at once his
friend and his bitterest foe.
Sir Reginald Steele paused and pointed out at the already darkening
horizon.
"What a target," he cried. "Look at her, with her absurdly proud and
vaunting four funnels. Look at the great upstanding chest like some
vain pouter-pigeon. Man, give me an armored submarine, with a brace of
heavy guns on it, and wirelessly controlled torpedoes, and I'd--sink
her cold. I'd sink her before she got my range. I'd sink her while she
fumbled amongst her cumbersome armaments."
He laughed the merry laugh of a man who wishes to probe the open wound
of disagreement between two close friends.
"You're welcome to the submarine, Reggie. I'll take the 'pouter' every
time. I'll give you a dozen shots with your wireless controlled as a
start, and your pop-guns can amuse themselves indefinitely. She's a
handsome craft. Town class, isn't she? She'd make you hate it in spite
of your steel-clad hide."
Both men were smiling pleasantly as they watched the distant cruiser
steaming slowly and sedately upon the wintry waters. The challenge had
been replied to, and neither of the men seemed inclined to carry the
debate further. Admiral Sir Reginald Steele had hurled every argument
in favor of his submarine beliefs at the head of his friend and chief,
during official hours, and they had agreed to differ. Now, in friendly
intercourse, he was ready to add his pin-pricks, but he knew there was
nothing important to be gained.
"The Farlows are smart men," he observed presently, obviously following
out his train of thought aloud. "The old man is something unusual in
the way of a shipmaster. One doesn't associate these shipping princes
with real understanding of naval force. But once or twice yesterday I
thought there were things he could teach me."
"Yes."
Sir Joseph was intent upon the movements of the cruiser. She had
displayed no lights and the dusk was creeping on.
"I suppose it is the old man who is the genius of Dorby. What about
young Ruxton? Harborough is keen on him. So is Lordburgh. I confess to
a weakness that way myself. That was a great stroke of his, getting the
secrets of that place in the Baltic. Apparently there's some one also
who shares your faith in--underwater."
Sir Reginald had become absorbed in the horizon. He produced a pair of
glasses and peered out in the gathering gloom.
"All far-seeing people do. These Farlows for instance," he replied.
"What's that beyond the cruiser? She's low in the water."
Sir Joseph produced glasses. For some silent minutes they remained
scouring the sea with eyes long trained to the work. Finally it was Sir
Joseph who spoke.
"You should recognize it," he said.
"Yes. Underwater, and--a foreigner."
They relapsed into a long silence. The stars came out and a light frost
was settling upon the moor. The air was brilliantly clear. Their
glasses revealed the two distant objects.
"She's hove-to," observed Sir Reginald later on.
"The cruiser--yes. That's a mistake."
Sir Joseph made a sound of impatience with his tongue.
Again a prolonged silence fell. Both men were absorbed. The passage of
time seemed of no consequence. The cold of the night seemed to concern
them not at all.
"I don't know," Steele said much later, in answer to his chief's
remark. "You can't tell what's doing from here. Nor what arrangements
young Farlow has made. Ah!"
"Lights." Sir Joseph waited.
"Green astern. White ahead. Red amidships. The foreigner has shed a
pinnace. It's coming ashore. It's getting interesting. That boy seemed
pretty clear. I hope things are all right."
The boat was racing towards the shore at a point to the right of the
two watchers. Sir Reginald was following it closely with his night
glasses. The other continued his survey of the vessels beyond.
Presently he spoke.
"She's steaming again--the cruiser."
"Yes." The other's glasses were raised towards the horizon again.
"She's covered the foreigner's lights." Sir Joseph lowered his glasses.
"What's the time?"
His companion lowered his glasses. He glanced at his watch.
"Nearly half-past six," he said significantly. Then in a moment his
glasses were levelled at a point much nearer into land. "Ah, here she
comes," he said, in his quick way. "Now the play begins. The curtain's
going up. No lights. A good many regulations are being broken to-night.
Shall we need an enquiry into it, Chief?" Sir Reginald laughed. "Well,
Lordburgh is to blame if any trouble occurs. He forced us to lend our
powerful aid in this thing. The odds are on that boy Ruxton. I'd bet my
hopes of pension on it. He's keen and confident. Such romance never
came our way, eh? I haven't heard before of units of the British Navy
being used to secure a man a wife."
Sir Joseph laughed shortly.
"There's a good deal more than a woman in this. According to Lordburgh
this trifling naval episode may secure the person of Germany's strong
man--criminally engaged. It would be worth while. Sparling's a good
man. If they pull it off it'll be his best day's work. Hello!"
At that moment a great white beam of light shot athwart the sky. It
moved swiftly and rigidly. It swept in a great arc and settled on the
face of the cliff away to their right.
"Look. Three lights just below us." Sir Reginald pointed out upon the
water. "Green astern. White ahead. Red amidships. It isn't the
foreigner from outside. It's----"
"Hark!" Sir Joseph held up a warning hand.
The two men listened acutely. Far away, remote but distinct, the sound
of a pistol-shot reached them.
"That's the second," said Sir Joseph. "Come along, let's go and see
what's happening."