While O'Brien slept and the two airmen speculated about him, far, far
ahead two dirigibles flew straight into the rising sun. The first one
might have outdistanced the second with the utmost ease. Indeed
sometimes it was hard for her young pilot to temper his speed to the
pace he knew the second balloon could make. The dirigible from Barnegat
Inlet proved to be a wonder. It was a swallow, an arrow, a flash of
light, a dream. All these terms and many more passed in turn through the
mind of Lawrence as he held the wheel and felt the big cylinder respond
to the slightest turn.
The lighter-than-air machines, while seemingly bulky, have a strange
feeling of buoyancy that the planes do not possess. Lawrence seemed to
partake of this lightness. He was happy beyond words. All was well. In
his breast lay his new and wonderful secret. All the anxieties
concerning the errand that had sent them overseas were past, with the
treasure and the papers safely hidden.
Just in sight was another dirigible coming on at top speed. Lawrence
kept it in sight, but was too anxious to proceed to allow the convoy to
approach nearer. There was nothing that they wanted to say to O'Brien,
nothing that he could want of them. In case of accident--well, there
were the waterproof suits that were guaranteed to uphold the wearer
safely, warm and dry, for forty-eight hours. Suits capable of offering a
cup of hot chocolate and a biscuit to the fortunate possessor! Lawrence
almost wished that he could try his out! As for O'Brien, he had a
wireless which he could use if necessary.
In the meantime everything moved smoothly and pleasantly. Lawrence, his
hand on the pulse of the machine he was guiding, marvelled at the
propelling power of the new fuel, hyolax, and rejoiced to think that he
had been honored by the position he was occupying. His thoughts turned
to Mr. Ridgeway with gratitude. He hoped his own father would be as
pleasant and as good to him.
As for Mr. Ridgeway, for the first time in a good many days he was at
ease. It is true that he had been worried at the failure of O'Brien to
turn up at Barnegat but he had appeared so soon after their own start,
hustling along dim and mysterious in the early dawn, that Mr. Ridgeway's
last fears were silenced and he felt that the journey could assume the
aspect of a pleasure trip, a vacation from care. He settled himself in
an easy corner and sat looking out through the clouds that were rising
about them from the sea. They were shot with rainbow tints as the rising
sun pierced them. Mr. Ridgeway wished that his wife might see them. He
would have much to tell her when he saw her in the old English house
where she was staying, utterly unconscious of the fact that her staid
husband was literally flying to meet her!
Not a foreboding crossed his mind. The papers, carefully protected by
wrappings of oiled silk, as well as the crown jewels, lay in a cleverly
constructed cylinder under his feet.
This cylinder was an invention of his own. The size, weight, and shape
were exactly identical with the cylinders that held the hyolax. There
were ten of these cylinders lying side by side under a close grating
that served as floor in that end of the cabin. Their polished steel
sides gleamed prettily through the slats. They were made especially to
fit the under curve of the boat-shaped cabin, and were ample to carry
enough hyolax for three oversea trips, but Mr. Ridgeway wanted no
question of insufficient gas to worry him. But the end can held the
treasure. With his own hands, under the eye of the Keeper at the
Treasury, he had wrapped the priceless crown jewels in cotton, and had
stored them in the big steel shell. Their individual boxes, cases, and
caskets made of finest leather and carved oak and gold, were returned to
the Treasury. Some other time they could be returned to their anxious
royal owner. Now the only thing that mattered was the jewels themselves.
Mr. Ridgeway smiled as he thought of the splendid glittering things.
Never before in the world's history had they been handled by any hands
other than those of noblemen and women.
And here they were, their only guardian a man of the people, yet safe on
their way home to their royal resting place.
So Mr. Ridgeway rested, his eyes on the east and his thoughts far ahead.
Occasionally talking to Lawrence, reading or planning, he spent the
daylight hours.
Behind came what seemed O'Brien's car, never gaining, but following
steadily.
Staring steadily at the dirigible ahead, like a snake that fixes its
baleful eyes on its prey to hypnotize and devour, Smith bent forward,
tense and untiring. He had not slept for forty-eight hours, yet his pale
eyes were clear and keen, his face, a little pale, was unlined by
anxiety. Why should he be anxious? All was going well. He knew the very
spot off the coast where the white cliffs rose so bleakly, the very
place where even now the schooner would be waiting. All he needed was a
little patience, just a little. Then he would send out the signal for
help ... and he knew Mr. Ridgeway. He would stop to help O'Brien, no
matter how anxious to make speed on the last lap of the journey across
the ocean.
There was but one thing, such a _little_ thing, seemingly so
unimportant. And this one thing, passing in a whispered conversation
between O'Brien and Lawrence, he did not know. But Lawrence remembered
and put his knowledge to the test, and the result worried him. Again and
again he made the manoeuver, so far to the right, back as far to the
left, and a spurt ahead, but there was no sign of acknowledgment from
the plane following.
O'Brien could not have forgotten. O'Brien never forgot _any_thing.
Lawrence tried the manoeuver until he was afraid to repeat it, and like
a star shell exploding in his brain came the thought, "_That is not
O'Brien's car!_"
He took the glasses and studied the car. He could see by its quick
tremor that the engines were being pressed to their utmost in order to
keep up with their speedy leader, but otherwise there was nothing to
make him think that O'Brien was not at the wheel. Yet he could not cast
out the strange thought, "O'Brien is not there!" If not, who was in the
car? Who was rushing it directly in their aerial wake? He hated to
answer that question.
Surely if it was not O'Brien, there was reason for caution. And the only
caution that now occurred to Lawrence was to keep ahead. Also he decided
not to say anything about his suspicions to Mr. Ridgeway until something
really serious occurred. And Lawrence hoped with all his might and main
that his suspicions were all wrong. That seemed more than likely.
Lawrence knew that his nerves were tuned up to the snapping point. He
was suspicious of everything. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see
Mr. Ridgeway taking it easy. With an effort of will, Lawrence laughed
his fears away. Yet every little while he looked back at the tiny object
following them, and twice Lawrence slowed down his powerful engine until
the car was in plain sight.
The second time he fancied that the other dirigible also slackened speed
as though the pilot preferred not to lessen the distance between them.
Patiently Lawrence went through the secret manoeuvers but there was no
response. Either the car was not O'Brien's, or else O'Brien was never at
the wheel. In either case, Lawrence found his anxiety growing.
There was no anxiety in the second dirigible. Smith was only conscious
of a sense of annoyance to think that he was obliged to use the
counterpart of O'Brien's dirigible instead of his own racing airplane.
He felt almost unable to brook the delay of the few hours that must pass
before they saw the white cliffs of England. Yet he knew that even if he
had had the plane it would have been most unwise to attack in mid-ocean,
where Mr. Ridgeway would be forced to sink the papers and gems if the
battle reached that end. He had not known Mr. Ridgeway so long without
having to learn that in a question of honor he would sacrifice his life
rather than fail in his trust.
Over and over again he mentally tested out every small detail of his
plot. Over and over he tried out his plans. There was but one flaw. Not
one of the three men whom they had expected had appeared to take passage
in the dirigible. Smith and Brown were alone. Where had John and the
others been sidetracked? Not for a second did he doubt that they had
obeyed him to the letter concerning O'Brien.
He chuckled as he thought of O'Brien. He was certainly a good man to
have out of the way. There was something indeed snaky in the way Smith,
holding the wheel with sure and practiced hands, allowed himself to
dwell on O'Brien. How nearly the Irishman had come to tricking them all!
If the plaster had held ... but it had fallen, and so had O'Brien! All
was well. Somewhere back in Washington, in a dark alley, a crumpled,
dishevelled figure had already met the eyes of the first passerby. Smith
chuckled again as he saw it with his mind's eye, and seemed to hear the
stranger muttering "Drunk!" as he approached the tumbled figure that had
been O'Brien. Then he lazily imagined the change in the man's expression
as he stooped curiously over the fallen man and saw in the bruised and
soiled face not the sodden look of liquor, but that ominous, austere
mask that death and death alone draws over the human countenance.
Running, stumbling, the passerby would dash for the nearest street,
colliding perhaps with a policeman, yawning away the last of his night
beat. Then the quick return, the tap-tap-tap on the ringing pavement,
and soon the rattle and clang of the city ambulance. But not before a
crowd had gathered, one of the crowds that gather at any hour from
everywhere and nowhere; curious, cold, morbid. And then the hasty
shuffle through the fallen man's pockets, and the awestruck whisper
between the policemen, "It's--it's O'Brien! O'Brien, the detective!"
Then how their manner would change! No common drunk this, lying crumpled
in the filthy gutter. O'Brien was one of themselves. If it could happen
to O'Brien, it might happen to one of them. Hastily, yet with utmost
care, they would hunt for clues, for cuts, for bruises on the dead man,
to find nothing, to come up against a blank wall. Doctor, lawyer,
merchant, or thief, no one could find a mark on O'Brien that meant
murder. And Smith knew they would look for murder. A blank wall! To save
their own skins, Smith knew that John and the others would leave the
hypodermic in an unrecognizable state far away from the scene of the
crime. Yes, he could trust the three cutthroats he had left behind.
Smith did not depreciate himself. He knew that he ruled his underlings
by fear, a cold loathing that they could not understand or overcome.
Smith never made the mistake of underpaying his servants, so common to
many criminals. No; if possible he always gave them rather more than the
shares they expected. So there was in everything he plotted the thrill
of big rewards, of big profits. And they always knew that slip one word
of rebellion, and for them, no matter where in the whole round world
they might hide, sooner or later a shot out of the dark, a drop of
poison in their cup would be the finish of the tale! Smith kept a clean
slate.
These thoughts were pleasant ones for Smith as he steered his ship
through the gentle currents of the upper air. He was glad that O'Brien
was dead; he was glad that his eye was on the treasure boat ahead; he
was not even sorry that the three men had missed their appointment with
him. He knew that in an encounter such as lay ahead he and Brown would
be perfectly capable of sending the dirigible ahead plunging down into
the sea. And they would go down easily and quickly because of the
fishing schooners that they would take for friends, and so let
themselves down to the surface of the sea as soon as they could.
Smith really was enjoying a very cheerful journey. He kept the wheel
until he was tired, then put Brown in the pilot's seat, and throwing
himself down on a pile of rugs, lay looking up at the sky. Evening
gathered around them like a cloak, and the stars, large and intimate,
commenced to sparkle. He took the wheel long enough for Brown to set the
lights properly. There were rules of the road even for these wayfarers
in the sky--really traffic rules that must be observed. Then he once
more resigned the wheel to his henchman and went to look at the guns.
There were four of them, the latest model, rapid fire, small bore, any
one of them throwing a bullet that would pierce a dirigible at the
maximum distance of any shooting machine made. They cost a small fortune
and had been secured by the syndicate of scoundrels who at that very
moment were waiting so anxiously for the papers under Mr. Ridgeway's
feet. Smith had personally seen to the mounting of them. Solid as the
very wood and steel they were screwed to and blocked by, they pushed
their wicked thin little noses up as though trying to look through the
tarpaulins that covered them. When the dirigible had been anchored in
the hangar outside of Washington, these guns had been concealed by seats
that ran around the swinging cabin. These Smith had tossed aside, and
they had afterwards been destroyed in the fire that had burned down the
hangar. That this fire had occurred and that his own cigarette had
started it, Smith did not know.
Once in a while something happened that Smith did _not_ know, although
he would not have admitted it.
Having looked the guns over, Smith went back to his rugs and, lying
down, stared at the sky until sleep overcame him. He could afford to
sleep. All was going well. At the wheel, like a big gray wolf, Brown sat
staring toward his prey through the deepening dusk. He could feel the
soft cool shape of countless jewels dripping through his fingers. What
did _he_ care if they were stained with blood?
Brown also wondered a little about John and his friends. He could have
told Smith that he was not altogether sure of the three precious
scoundrels. He did not feel that they were quite as afraid of Smith at
long range as they were when his pale, baleful eye was fixed on them.
Brown could have told Smith that and more, but one was not invited to
exchange confidences with Smith. That was his mistake. Brown did not
doubt the death of O'Brien unless something had come up to put the three
in danger. He knew that they were first, last and always intent on
saving their own necks. Brown mistrusted them as much as they mistrusted
Brown. And that was wholly. Yet it was funny they had not showed up when
they knew that the jewels were to be secured on that very trip. They
would have enjoyed the fight, would have enjoyed the first glance of all
the flashing, glowing things in the cabin of the schooner. What indeed
would _they_ have cared that the gems were stained with blood?