CONCERNS A PRETTY STRANGER.
A short, puffy, red-faced man in grey flannels went past.
It was Sir Hubert Atherton, of Overstrand--that little place declared to
be the richest village in all England--and Francis Goring, recognising
him, bade a hurried farewell to his naval friend, and with a hasty word
of thanks to the German, went out.
The naval airman and the German were left alone.
Again the round-faced cable engineer pulled over the double-throw
switch, examined the tiny point of light upon the gauge, and registered
its exact position.
"You remember, Herr Strantz, the gentleman who accompanied me here
yesterday," exclaimed Barclay, when the engineer had finished writing up
his technical log.
"Certainly. Der gentleman who was a motor-cyclist?"
"Yes. He was found on the road last evening, murdered."
"Zo!" gasped the German, staring at his visitor. "Killed!"
"Yes; stabbed to death fifteen miles from here, and his motor-cycle was
missing. It is a mystery."
"Astounding!" exclaimed Herr Strantz. "He took tea mit a lady over at
the hotel. I saw them there when I went off duty at half-past three
o'clock."
"I know. The police are now searching for that lady."
"Dey will not have much difficulty in finding her, I suppose--hein?" the
engineer replied. "I myself know her by sight."
"You know her!" cried the Englishman. "Why, I thought you only arrived
here from Germany two days ago. Where have you met her?"
"In Bremen, at the Krone Hotel, about three months ago. She call herself
Fraeulein Montague, and vos awaiting her mother who vos on her way from
New York."
"Did she recognise you?"
"I think not. I never spoke to her in the hotel. She was always a very
reserved but very shrewd young lady," replied Herr Otto Strantz, slowly
but grammatically. "I was surprised to meet her again."
"Montague!" the airman repeated. "Do you know her Christian name?"
"Jean Montague," was the German's response as he busied himself
carefully screwing down one of the terminals of an instrument.
Noel Barclay made a quick note of the name in a tiny memorandum-book
which he always carried in his flying-jacket.
He offered the German one of his cigarettes--an excellent brand smoked
in most of the ward-rooms of His Majesty's Navy--and then endeavoured to
obtain some further information concerning his dead shipmate's visitor.
But Herr Strantz, whose sole attention seemed centred upon the shore-end
of the new cable which was so soon to form yet another direct link
between Berlin and London, was in ignorance of anything connected with
the mysterious young person.
The statement that Harborne--the motor-cyclist who had spoken the
German language so well when he had accompanied the pretty young girl
the day before to watch the testing--was dead, seemed to cause the
cable-engineer considerable reflection. He said nothing, but a close
observer would have noticed that the report of the murder had had a
distinct effect upon him. He was in possession of some fact, and this,
as a stranger on that coast, and a foreigner to boot, it was not, after
all, very difficult to hide.
Noel, however, did not notice it. His mind was chiefly occupied in
considering the best and most diplomatic means by which the missing
lady, who lived in Bremen as Miss Montague, could be traced.
The two men smoked their cigarettes; Strantz pulling over the switch
every five minutes--always to the very tick of the round brass
clock--examining the tiny point of light which resulted, and carefully
registering the exact amount of current and the position of the ship
engaged in paying out the black, insulated line into the bed of the
German Ocean.
While Noel watched he also wondered whether, in the near future, that
very cable across the sea would be used by England's enemy for the
purposes of her destruction. True, we had our new wireless stations all
along the coast, and at other places inland at Ipswich, Chelmsford, and
elsewhere, yet if what was feared really came to pass, all those,
together with the shore-ends of the cables, would be seized by advance
parties of Germans already upon British soil--picked men, soldiers all,
who were already living to-day in readiness upon the East Coast of
England as hotel-servants, clerks or workers in other trades. Our
shrewd, business-like friends across the grey, misty sea would take care
to strike a blow on our shores by the wrecking of bridges, the disabling
of railways, the destruction of telegraphs, and the like, simultaneous
with their frantic dash upon our shore. Germany never does anything by
halves, nor does she leave anything to chance.
Herr Strantz, having finished some calculations, and having tapped out a
message to the ship, raised his head, and with a smile upon his broad,
clean-shaven face, said, with his broad German accent:
"Ech! You are an officer. I suppose that, if the truth were told,
England hardly welcomes another cable laid by Germany--hein?"
"Well," laughed the airman, pushing his big, round goggles higher upon
his brow, "we sometimes wonder when your people are really coming."
"Who knows?" asked the other, smiling and elevating his shoulders.
"Never--perhaps."
"Ah! Many there are in England who still regard invasion by the Kaiser's
army as a bogey," Noel Barclay remarked. "But surely it is not
impossible, or why should the British authorities suddenly awaken to the
peril of the air?"
"All is possible to Germany--when the time is ripe. That is my private
opinion as a Deutscher, and as one who has an opportunity of observing,"
the other frankly responded.
"I quite agree," was Noel's reply. "Dreams of ten years ago are to-day
accomplished facts. Aeroplanes cross the Channel and the Alps, and fly
from country to country in disregard of diplomatic frontiers, while your
German airships--unfortunate as they may be--have actually crossed to us
here, and returned without us being any the wiser. Had they been hostile
they could have destroyed whole cities in a single night!"
"And your ever-watchful coastguards who actually saw them were
disbelieved," the German laughed.
"Yes. I admit the air is conquered by your people--and Great Britain is
now no longer an island. Wireless messages can be transmitted five
thousand miles to-day, and who knows that it may not be possible
to-morrow, by directing similar electric rays, to blow up explosives
wherever they may be concealed--in the magazines of battleships or in
land forts?"
"Ach, yes!" agreed the engineer. "Ten years ago war between England and
Germany was more improbable than it is to-day, for each day, I fear,
brings us nearer to hostilities--which we, in Germany, know to be
inevitable."
"And when that day dawns we shall have to exert every force, every
nerve, every muscle, if we are to repel you," remarked Noel, his
clear-cut face unusually dark and serious.
"I fear that you will, sir," was the other's quiet response.
"Individually we want to be friends mit England, but you, as a British
officer, know quite well that one day the powder magazine will explode
and there must be der war. It will be forced suddenly and swiftly upon
the Kaiser and upon the people."
"Yes," sighed the naval airman. "So all we can now do is to remain good
friends as long as ever we can--eh? Forewarned is forearmed."
"Exactly; but," added the German, "I trust the openness of my remarks
has given you no offence, sir. If it has, then I beg you to accept my
most sincere apologies. You are an officer and serve your country. I,
too, am an officer of reserve and serve mine."
"Surely no apologies are needed, my dear Herr Strantz," laughed the
lieutenant, extending his hand frankly. "We have both exchanged our
opinions. In most I agree with you, although, of course, I naturally
believe in England's invincible power on the sea."
"That is but natural, my dear lieutenant. You are English," was the
engineer's response, and while he turned again to pull over the
testing-switch and bent to examine the point of light, Noel was puzzled
as to his exact meaning.
Presently Noel Barclay, shaking Herr Strantz's hand, humorously
expressed a hope that they might never find themselves enemies, and that
the cable might be successfully completed and inaugurated on the morrow;
strode out into the village street, and down the "Gap" to that wide
expanse of golden sands where a big Post Office gang were busily at work
covering up the long black cable lying in its trench.
The engineer of the General Post Office who was in charge, recognising
the airman, wished him good afternoon; but his thoughts were centred
upon the mysterious death of the man about whom so many queer rumours
had been afloat.
Rumours! Ah, how well he recollected one of them--a rumour that had gone
around the Service--namely that he had retired with the money earned by
selling to a foreign power a certain secret concerning "plotting." For
that reason, it was said, he had lived so constantly abroad. Though the
offence had never been brought home to him by the Admiralty, yet the
rumour had never been contradicted. Mud thrown, alas! always sticks.
Was it true, or was it a lie? his friend was wondering, as he stood
looking out upon that calm blue summer sea, bathed in the warm light of
that August afternoon, the sea in the deep bed of which lay the new link
connecting Berlin with London.
What could Dick Harborne have been doing, motoring so constantly about
that rural, out-of-the-world corner of England, that delightful little
strip of the open Norfolk coast so aptly termed Poppyland? That he was
not there as a summer visitor was quite certain. He had his headquarters
in Norwich, twenty miles away, and his constant journeys over the roads
between the Norfolk capital and the sea were certainly not without some
definite motive.
That Strantz should have recognised Harborne's fair companion was also
remarkable. What could she have been doing in Bremen? he wondered.
Noel Barclay looked around him anxiously. The wind, which had risen for
the past couple of hours while he had been in Mundesley, was now
dropping. With the sunset he would have a nice flight back to the
hangars standing on the shore beyond Yarmouth. The "old bus," as the
fine Bleriot monoplane was affectionately termed by the four
flying-officers at the air station, had been running like a clock.
Indeed he had flown her from Eastchurch two days previously, and
intended, on the morrow, to make a flight to inspect the station up at
Scarborough.
He lit another cigarette and sat down upon a boat to think, the white
surf rolling almost to his feet.
During the time the naval aviator had been watching the testing of the
cable, a tall, broad-shouldered, well-dressed, clean-shaven,
broad-browed young man in a drab tweed golf suit and cap, a man whose
great, dark, deep-set eyes wore a keen, intense look, and whose
countenance was one which once seen would be easily remembered, lounged
into the Old Ship Hotel. He was accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired
girl in a summer gown of cream serge and wearing a neat little hat of
pale blue silk. The girl's skirt displayed small, well-shaped ankles,
yet her shoes were stout and serviceable, and there was a cheapness
about her dress and an independent air which stamped her as a girl
accustomed to earn her own living.
Both were foreigners--French, apparently, for they spoke that language
together. His clothes were English, evidently from a smart tailor, and
he wore them with that easy nonchalance of the English golfer, while his
pretty, dark-eyed companion, although her gown was of cheap material, it
was nevertheless cut well, and both in figure and in gait she had all
the _chic_ of the true Parisienne.
"Yes, dearest," the young man exclaimed in French, as he rose and looked
out into the village street, "this is a very interesting little place, I
believe. We will have a stroll along the _plage_ and see it after our
tea. How quiet, how charming it is, after London--eh?"
"Ah! I always love the country, Ralph," was her reply in English, and as
she sat composedly in her chair, after walking from Overstrand, where
they had been to see that lonely, crumbling old church tower which the
late Clement Scott has called "the Garden of Sleep," she gave him a look
which was unmistakable--a look of true, passionate affection.
Indeed, upon her finger, now that she had removed her glove, was a
diamond engagement ring, an ornament which meant so very much to her--as
it does to all girls in all stations of life who are beloved.
The man turned from the window, his big, deep-set eyes upon her, and,
bending, kissed her fondly. But the expression upon his hard, aquiline
face as he turned away was a strange, unusual one, though, perhaps
unfortunately for her, she was unable to see it. The look was not one of
love--nay, rather of world-weariness and of deep anxiety.
"I wish my holiday was not yet at an end, Ralph," she sighed, wistfully,
after a brief pause. "But father is inexorable, and says he must get
back to business, while, as you know, I am due back at the Maison
Collette on Monday morning. I've already had three days longer than the
other girls--three delightful sunny days."
"Yes," sighed the young man. "I suppose, dearest, you will be compelled
to go back for a time to your _modes_ and your hat-making and your
workroom friends. But only until November--until you become my wife." He
spoke English with only a slight trace of accent.
"Ah! What supreme happiness!" cried the girl, in ecstasy, again speaking
in French, as he bent until his lips touched hers. "I will remain
patient, Ralph, till then, even though all the girls may envy me. They
are all English, and just because I happen to be French, they are never
too friendly."
The young man was silent for a few moments; then he sprang from her side
as the waiter entered with the tea.
After he had swallowed a cup of tea he suddenly exclaimed in perfect
French:
"Ah! I quite forgot, dearest. I wonder if you would excuse me if I leave
you here for ten minutes or so? I want to send a telegram."
"_Certainement_," she laughed happily. "I shall be quite all right,
Ralph. There are papers here to amuse me."
"Very well," he said; "I won't be a minute longer than possible," and,
taking up his cap, he went out and closed the door behind him.
It was then about half-past five o'clock.
But the instant he had gone she sprang to her feet. Her face changed. A
haunted, wild look shone in her dark, terrified eyes, and she stood
rigid, her hands clenched, her face pale to the lips.
"_Dieu!_" she whispered aloud, to herself, startled at the sound of her
own voice, and staring straight before her. "I was a fool--a great fool
to return here to-day! Someone may recognise me, though it was to the
other hotel I went with M. Harborne. Ah! No, I cannot--I dare not go
down on the beach," she went on in French. "I must get away from this
accursed place as soon as ever Ralph returns. What if he is suspected?
Besides, the police may be looking for me, as it must now be known that
I was here with him in Mundesley yesterday. Ah, yes! I was a fool to
dare to return like this, even in different clothes. As soon as Ralph
comes back I must feign serious illness, and he will take me back to
Cromer, and on to London to-morrow. What evil fate it was that he should
bring me here--here, to the one place on all the earth that I desired
never again in my life to see!"
And the girl sank back inertly into the horsehair arm-chair in the
old-fashioned room, and sat, white-faced and breathlessly anxious,
staring straight before her.
Meanwhile Ralph Ansell--who, although actually a Frenchman, bore an
English name--walked quickly up the village street and out upon the high
road towards Parton. From time to time he turned, as though he feared
that he might be followed, but there being nobody in the vicinity, he
suddenly, when about half a mile from the village, struggled through a
hedge into a grass-field where, in the corner, sheltered from the wind,
stood Noel Barclay's naval monoplane, with its star-like Gnome engine
and wide planes of pale yellow.
The spot was a lonely one. Before him stretched a wide heath covered
with gorse, and the Norfolk Broads beyond. Nobody was nigh.
Bending, he crept swiftly along the high hedge, until he reached the
machine. His attitude was that of an evil-doer. From his pocket he
produced a small bolt of wood painted to resemble steel. He advanced to
the left wing-spar of the monoplane and, apparently possessing expert
knowledge of the point where it was the most vulnerable, he swiftly drew
out a split pin, removed a small steel bolt at the end of the main-stay
cable, and replaced it with the imitation bolt.
The dastardly, murderous action was only the work of a couple of
minutes, when, placing the bolt in his pocket, he crept back again
beneath the hedge, and ten minutes later reached the Old Ship unnoticed,
having taken a certain route with which he seemed well acquainted.
As he approached the hotel he came face to face with Noel Barclay, who,
cigarette in mouth, strode at an easy pace along the road towards the
spot where he had left his machine. He passed the young foreigner
without recognition. The man in the golf suit was a mere summer visitor,
and to his knowledge he had never seen him before. Unsuspicious of what
had been done, he went forward, eager to rise in the air again and
return to his headquarters.
But when he had passed Ralph Ansell turned and, glancing covertly after
him, an evil expression upon his strong, clean-shaven face, muttered a
fierce imprecation in French beneath his breath.
The officer, however, strolled forward in ignorance of the stranger's
sinister glance or his malediction, while the foreigner, with a crafty
smile of triumph, entered the hotel, to find, to his alarm, that Jean
had been taken very unwell.
In a moment he expressed the greatest consternation, and at once rang
and ordered a cab in which to drive her back to Cromer.
A quarter of an hour later Jean Libert--whose feigned illness had now
almost passed--was seated happily at her lover's side, slowly ascending
the hill on the cliff-road leading towards Cromer, when, of a sudden, a
loud whirr was heard in the air behind them.
"Why, look, there is an aeroplane!" cried the girl, enthusiastically,
turning and watching with interest the naval monoplane rising beyond the
village they had just left.
The driver pulled up, and the pair stood up in the vehicle to watch the
splendid ascent of the dauntless aviator, who rose against the clear sky
in a wide spiral higher and higher, twice passing over their heads,
until he had reached an altitude of fully eight hundred feet. Then,
after a final circle, he turned and made straight towards the yellow
declining sun, speeding evenly and swiftly in the direction of Great
Yarmouth.
Next second a loud, shrill shriek escaped the girl as she covered her
face with her hands to shut out the appalling sight which met her gaze.
The machine, flying so beautifully, had, of a sudden, collapsed as
though she had broken her wing, which rose at right angles, and then the
machine, out of control, pitched forward and, nose first, fell straight
to the ground like a stone.