THE WEEK-END
At the conclusion of breakfast Seton Darville made an excuse to go
out for a quarter of an hour, and at once went to the telephone
call-office; for he had no ’phone at the flat. He went to Hove for
quiet and rest, hence his refusal to instal an instrument.
It was Sunday morning, therefore the call he put through to the North
British Hotel at Edinburgh was quickly responded to, and a few moments
later he found himself speaking with Sandy Paton.
“Darville speaking,” he said. “I’ve just seen the paper. Only this
moment it has suddenly occurred to me that although there is paper on
the electrical terminals, yet the connection would still be made, and
the circuit completed through the screws. I hope everything went off
according to plan.”
“Everything. The machine-gun did the trick. They only had one rubber
bottle on board, but the explosion nearly blew us out of the water. It
was heard thirty miles away,” replied the officer of the Special
Branch in guarded language. Unfortunately there was no buzzer
contrivance like that in his own flat in London and in the secret
office near Trafalgar Square. Hence the conversation was compelled to
be an open one.
Darville was naturally anxious for details, and these Paton gave
briefly, but to the point.
“As you know, the new German explosive is liquid, like
nitro-glycerine, and must be carried in rubber, lest it should jar and
explode,” he said. “We allowed them to fix and submerge the stuff and
attach the little battery-boxes, and then, just as they were about to
attach the last bottle we alarmed them. They took the bottle on board
and made away up the firth as fast as they could, their idea being to
get ashore higher up and make a bolt for it in the darkness. As we
approached they fired, and I got struck in the hand, while another
bullet narrowly grazed the head of the mechanic driving us. We had an
infantryman from the barracks with us in charge of the machine-gun. I
saw that their firing was becoming very hot, therefore I gave orders
to let fly. You know the rest. There’s nothing left of the Caborns, or
their friends.”
For a moment Darville did not respond. By his watchfulness he had
relieved Britain of several dangerous enemies. The Caborns had been
exceedingly clever, but he had outwitted them, just as he constantly
outwitted those who endeavored to plot against the country.
“Listen, Paton. Search the Caborns’ house--you know where. I expect
you’ll find something interesting--letters, perhaps. And give orders
to keep watch upon the gentleman at Earl’s Court. He evidently knows a
good deal, and is, no doubt, an enemy agent. You watch his movements,
and I’ll take my own steps. Report to me by letter to Hove anything of
interest. That’s all.”
And he rang off.
A few moments later he asked for a number in London, and when he
listened, he heard that puzzling buzz, like a bumble-bee in a box, and
he knew that he was on to his office.
“Who’s there?” he asked sharply.
“Is that Mr. Darville?” inquired a voice through the buzzing. “Bennett
speaking.”
“Oh, Bennett. Just take a note that the correspondence of that person
living in Longridge Road is copied as from to-day until I withdraw the
order.”
“Very well, sir. I understand who you mean. Have you seen the papers?”
his secretary asked.
“Yes. All is well. I’ve just been speaking to Paton. I’m at Hove, so,
if there are any papers to sign, send them down this afternoon by
messenger. I shall be in at six o’clock.”
“I’ll bring them myself, sir,” replied the ex-naval officer, who had
no objection to a run down to Brighton. Secret reports from his agents
abroad, Darville never trusted in the post.
“Right, Bennett. I’ll see you at six, and you can take them back with
you. Is there anything urgent?”
“Yes, one is rather urgent. Your instructions are wanted.”
“Very well. See you this evening,” and he rang off and returned direct
to Edris.
Truly Seton Darville led a busy, active life. No day passed but he
dealt with difficult problems of investigation or espionage on
Britain’s behalf abroad. He formed plans which he instructed others to
carry out, and he received and signed reports and other voluminous
documents which were afterwards indexed and filed for future
reference. He was ever indefatigable and alert, making quick
decisions, and never departing from them once his mind was made up.
On reëntering the flat he apologized to the girl who, looking fresh
and happy in her dark pleated skirt and pale gray silk jersey, was
standing by the window.
“It is really beautiful out,” he declared. “Let’s get a car and have a
run to Chichester for lunch, eh?”
“A ripping idea!” she said, therefore he scribbled a note to a near-by
garage, and sent the maid round with it.
At eleven o’clock a fine limousine stood outside, and very soon they
were on their way through Shoreham, over the bridge, on to the open
sea-road which led to Worthing.
“You are very silent this morning, Seton. Why?” she asked presently,
as they sat side by side.
His hand fell upon hers, as though half consciously, while he turned
to face her.
“Oh, do forgive me!” he said apologetically. “I had no idea that I was
unusually quiet. I was thinking of the story I was writing last
night--that’s all.”
It was not the truth. The fact was that he was still debating within
himself the folly of the situation, and the hopelessness of ever
dreaming to possess her as his wife.
But her remark caused him to chat merrily in an endeavor to entertain
her, until at last she said, with a pretty pout upon her lips:
“You haven’t yet promised to go to Wengen, you know. And I came down
to see you on purpose to persuade you to come.”
“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t I told you, my dear Edris, that I
can’t yet make my plans?”
“But you are surely your own master, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Of course I am,” was his reply, for he was unable to tell her of his
real position, and of how he was a voluntary and highly influential
servant of the State, and the trusted friend of the Prime Minister and
members of the Cabinet.
“Then it surely is easy for you to make up your mind. Won’t you--to
please me?” she begged of him, fixing her eyes upon his pleadingly.
His first impulse was to refuse, but in his wild longing he felt
impelled to obey her desire. How could he longer resist, loving her as
passionately as he did?
“Well, if you put it in that way, I can only say that I will certainly
do anything to please you,” he said.
“Then you’ll go!” she cried delightedly, her gloved fingers closing
involuntarily upon his hand. “You’ll go, won’t you?”
“If you really wish it.”
“You won’t be bored, eh?”
“I am never bored, Edris, when I am with you,” he answered gallantly.
“A pretty speech certainly,” she laughed. “But I wonder if you really
mean it?”
“Of course I do. Why do you wonder?”
“Oh, I don’t know! My opinion of men, and what they tell a woman, is
nowadays only a poor one.”
“I know. Because you have been deceived,” he said. “Every woman is
misled and tricked by a man at some period of her life. It is men
themselves who are the cause of women’s deceit, which, after her
disillusionment, becomes her armor.”
“I’m glad you admit it,” she laughed. “Most men won’t. They declare a
woman’s deceit to be a woman’s fault. But I hope I have never yet been
deceitful, and I sincerely trust I never shall be.”
Would she have uttered those fateful words had she known what lay in
store for her? No. When, later, she recalled them, she wished that she
had been dumb rather than express that hope.
It is good that none of us are permitted to peep into the future,
because the demons of hate and of horror would live ever with us in
all our lives. The doom of the future, the perils of our existence,
the results of the molding of our lives, are happily hidden from us by
a beneficent Providence, for, could we foresee events, our daily life
would become an unbearable nightmare.
Yet Seton Darville was possessed of an extra sense, a sense that a few
other men in the world are given, namely, an accurate and
never-failing premonition of danger. He scented instantly anything
which might detract from his own welfare, or from that of his intimate
friends. When he experienced that strange foreboding, he at once
heeded the danger-sign, and through all his life that curious,
haunting warning of evil had always been fulfilled.
The run into the old-world town of Chichester, sleepy on a Sunday,
proved a delightful one. They put up at that ancient hotel, the
Dolphin, opposite the Cathedral, and there lunched together, with a
dozen or so motorists like themselves, for the ancient hostelry is
always popular as a house of call for users of the road. After their
coffee they wandered into the great, dimly-lit cathedral, which dates
from the long-ago days when the Conqueror transferred to that spot the
see of Selsey, established three centuries before the Conquest. The
interior, sadly defaced as it was by the iconoclasts in 1643, was
silent and impressive, with its ancient monuments and stained glass.
They wandered through the choir, admired the mosaic pavement in front
of the altar, and stood behind the altar screen--upon the spot where,
for centuries, was the famous shrine of St. Richard de la
Wych--conversing in low whispers. Both were interested. Darville,
constant traveler as he was, had visited hundreds of churches and
cathedrals at home and abroad, until all sightseeing of any sort
whatsoever bored him intensely. But, as he strolled at the side of
Edris, he found himself greatly interested because of the interest
which she herself displayed. He found that she knew quite a lot about
church history, and her knowledge of ecclesiastical architecture
surprised him, for she pointed out that the nave was in the early
French Gothic style, while other parts showed traces of a transitional
Norman building of the twelfth century.
He listened with attention and interest to her intelligent chatter as
they stood in the Lady Chapel, and she pointed out how she knew that
it dated from the thirteenth century, and showed him little details to
prove her views.
“Really, Edris, you are quite an archæologist,” he laughed.
“Oh, well, I used to take a great interest in ancient churches at one
time, so they interest me,” was her reply.
They examined the old wooden chest which centuries ago had been
brought from the Saxon cathedral at Selsey by the Conqueror, and which
was near the north door, and then passed out again into the afternoon
sunshine.
“Well, really, Edris, you’re like a Cook guide!” he exclaimed. “What
you have told me is quite a revelation.”
But she only laughed, and said:
“Nothing matters to me, my dear Seton, except that you are going to
Wengen.”
Then five minutes later they were in the car, which turned towards the
market cross, the junction of the old Roman roads to the four winds,
and set out back again in the direction of Brighton.
Each hour he was with her the greater and madder became his
infatuation. He longed to tell her of his great passion, but he dare
not. He feared a rebuff; he knew her fearless, independent nature, and
those sarcastic, withering words she could use when annoyed. He had
heard her set men in their places when ski-ing in Switzerland. Hence
he hesitated lest she should laugh him to scorn--he who had loved her
in silence all those long, weary months.
So he sat at her side laughing and joking, and pretending to be
perfectly happy, yet indeed he was not, for in his heart was that
ever-present burden, the knowledge of his age, and that by it she was
debarred from him.
They arrived back at the flat shortly before six, and, as Edris passed
into her room to take off her coat, he said:
“I expect a man to call in a few minutes. You’ll excuse me, won’t
you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Shall I remain in here?”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I have to look at some papers on the table in
my room. Sit by the fire and look at the picture paper. I won’t be
very long,” he added merrily.
Scarcely had she entered her room when the doorbell rang, and Darville
admitted his secretary, Bennett, who bore in his hand a well-worn
brown leather portfolio.
Darville placed the case upon his writing-table and unlocked it with
the tiny key upon his watch-chain, while Bennett sank into an
arm-chair.
“Well,” he asked, “what’s this important report?”
“From Stephen, in Bucharest.”
“Stephen! What is he reporting? He’s been silent for months.”
“Read it,” said the smart, well-set-up naval man. “To me it seems
highly interesting.”
Darville picked it out from the pile of papers he took from the
leather case, and which all required his scribbly signature, and,
leaning back in his chair, read it through carefully.
“H’m!” he grunted. “Yes, Bennett, I quite agree with you. Stephen has
scented yet another danger. He will want immediate assistance.
Somebody must be at Constanza. Harden is in London, and he knows the
Near East. Send him there at once, and tell him to act under Stephen’s
orders. He must leave to-morrow morning and catch the Orient Express.
I see that very big complications are likely to arise. Our friends in
Belgrade are quite loyal, but I never trust the others. The Balkans
was ever the powder-magazine of Europe. The mine exploded in 1914,
when the Sarajevo assassination plunged us into war, and, if we’re not
very careful, the Balkans will again be made the excuse for another
German attack upon us ten times more furious and more deadly than
before.”
The smart naval officer, who controlled the secret office in London in
Darville’s absence, nodded seriously, and said:
“Yes, sir, I quite agree. The whole situation is full of peril.”
“It is,” sighed Darville, who at once set himself to scribble his
signature to that pile of documents before him.
“Is there anything else that I should read?” he asked, after he had
taken up his fountain pen.
“No, sir, nothing. They only require your signature or authority. I
have dealt with the applications for instructions in your absence.”
“Yes, Bennett, always do so. I--well, I’m getting a bit tired of it, I
confess the truth. Act as you think fit whenever I am away. I know I
can rely implicitly upon you. I shall be in Switzerland shortly. I
want you to carry on in my absence, and come out to me in secret every
fourteen days.”
“Winter sports, as usual?” asked the clean-shaven, Secret Service
official.
“Yes. At Wengen, as before. You get up there from Lauterbrunnen. You
know the place, for you came out twice to me last winter.”
“Oh, yes,” laughed the faithful Bennett, “of course. I know the little
railway station, and the train which climbs around the mountain and
through those wonderful tunnels up to the Jungfraujoch. It is really
lovely there in winter.”