SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
Bewildered by the rapidity with which such a succession of terrifying
events had taken place, Jane sank dazedly into a chair, trying her best
to collect her thoughts, as she looked about on the recent scene of
battle. All of the German plotters had been overcome and captured.
There, dead on the floor, lay the arch conspirator, old Otto Hoff, his
clammy face still twisted into a savage expression of malignant,
defiant hate.
And there, too, a martyr to the country’s cause, lay Thomas Dean. A sob
of pity rose in Jane’s throat as she thought of him, and the great
tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. He was so young, so brave, so
fine. Why must Death have come to him when there was yet so much he
might have done? With his talent and education, with his wonderful
spirit of self-sacrifice, he might have gone far and high. Regretfully,
she recalled that he had loved her, and with kind pity in her heart she
reproached herself for not having been able to return to this fine,
clean, American youth the affection she had inspired in him.
Thomas Dean, she told herself, was the type of man she should have
loved, a man of her own people, with her own ideals, a man of her
country, her flag, and yet—
There on the floor, not a dozen feet away from her, shameful circlets
of steel girdling both his wrists and his ankles, lay the one man for
whom she knew now she cared the most in all the world, the man she had
just betrayed into Chief Fleck’s hands.
Bitterly she reproached herself for not having tried to induce Frederic
to escape. In mental anguish she pictured him—the man she
loved—standing in the prisoner’s dock in some courtroom, branded as a
spy, as a leader of spies, charged with an attempt to slaughter the
inhabitants—the women and children—of a sleeping, unprotected city.
With growing horror it came to her that in all probability she herself
would be called on to testify against him. It might even be her
evidence that would result in his being led out before a firing squad
and put to an ignominious death.
She dared not even look in his direction now. What must he be thinking
about her? He had known that she loved him. In despair and doubt she
wondered whether he could understand that she, too, had been influenced
to perform her soul-wracking task by a sense of honor, of duty to her
country equally as potent as that which had impelled him to participate
in this terrible plan to destroy New York. Why had she not informed him
that his plans were known to the United States Government’s agents?
Surely she could have convinced him that his was a hopeless mission.
The plot would have been successfully thwarted, and he would not be
lying there in shackles, but, even though forced to flee, who knew,
perhaps some day after peace had come, he might have been able to
return for her. A great sob rose from her heart, but she stifled it
back. She would be brave and true. She must be glad for those of her
people that had been saved.
But her parents! What would they say? Her father and mother soon now
must learn that she had been deceiving them day after day. How
horrified and amazed they would be to learn that the chauffeur she had
brought into the household was in reality a government detective, and
that she, their daughter, had been a witness of his tragic death. What
would they think when they learned about her part in this gruesome
drama that had just been enacted? They, serene in their trust in her,
supposing she was at the home of one of her girl friends, were
peacefully asleep in their quiet apartment. How horror-stricken her
mother would be if she could have seen her daughter at this moment,
alone at midnight in a mountain shack, one girl among a band of strange
men—and two men stretched dead on the floor.
And Frederic! Always her perturbed imaginings led back to Frederic, to
the terrible fate that lay in store for him, to the awfulness of war
that had put between them an impassable gulf of blood and guilt and
treachery that, in spite of their love for each other, kept them at
cross purposes and made them enemies. Why, she vaguely wondered, must
governments disagree and start wars and make men hate and kill each
other? What was it all for?
In the midst of her mental wanderings she became conscious that Fleck
was speaking to Carter.
“I’ll stay here with Miss Strong and the prisoners,” he was saying.
“While we are waiting for the men to return with the cars, you’d better
make a search of the house.”
“Why not wait until daylight for that?” suggested Carter.
“It is not safe,” the chief objected. “To-night is the time to do it. A
plot important enough to have the especial attention of the war office
in Berlin must have many important persons involved in it. Somebody
with money in New York, some influential German sympathizer, must have
helped old Hoff set up these aeroplanes here and equip his shop. Some
chemical plant supplied the material for those bombs. It must have
taken hundreds of thousands of dollars to carry the plan to completion.
Men rich enough and powerful enough to have put through this plot are
powerful enough to be still dangerous. The minute word reaches the city
that the plan has miscarried there will be some one up here posthaste
to destroy or remove any damaging evidence we may have overlooked. Now
is the time to do our searching.”
“You’re right, Chief,” Carter admitted. “It would not surprise me if
there is not a wireless plant here. I’ll soon find out.”
“Let me help,” cried Jane.
Her nerves were suffering from a sharp reaction. All through the
excitement of the attack she had remained calm and collected, but now
she felt that if she remained another minute in the same room with the
two bodies, if she stayed near that row of shackled prisoners, if she
should chance to catch Frederic’s eye, she either would burst into
hysterical weeping or would collapse entirely. If only there was some
activity in which she could engage it might serve to divert the current
of maddening thoughts that kept overwhelming her. With something to do
she might regain her self-control.
“Please let me help Mr. Carter,” she begged.
“Certainly,” said Fleck, “go ahead. You have earned the right to do
anything you wish to-night.”
Guided by the light of an electric torch Carter and she quickly made
their way to the upper floor. In most of the rooms they found only
cheap cots with blankets, evidently the sleeping quarters of the
workmen, but in one of the rooms was a desk, and from it a ladder led
to an unfinished attic. Boldly climbing the ladder and flashing their
torch about they quickly located a high-powered wireless outfit. It was
mounted on a sliding shelf by which it could be quickly concealed in a
secret cupboard, but evidently the plotters had felt so secure from
intrusion in their retreat that they had been in the habit of leaving
it exposed.
“I thought we’d find it,” said Carter exultantly. “It’s an ideal
location, up here in the mountains. I’d better smash it at once.”
“Wait,” warned Jane, thoughtfully, “they spoke of having received a
wireless message from those dreadful X-boats lying there off the coast.
If we could only find their code-book, perhaps—”
“Right,” cried Carter, catching her idea at once.
Together they descended to the room below and began ransacking the
desk, Jane holding the light while Carter examined the papers they
found.
“Their system sometimes is bad for them,” said Carter. “Here’s a ledger
with the names of all the men employed here and the amounts paid to
each. And look,” he went on excitedly, “look what the stupid fools have
done with their German methodicalness—here are entries showing all the
supplies they obtained, from whom they got them and what they cost.
There’s evidence here for a hundred convictions. We’ll just take that
book along.”
There was one small drawer in the desk that was locked. Ruthlessly
Carter smashed the woodwork and pried it open. Its only contents was a
small parcel, a folded paper in a parchment envelope. Hastily he drew
forth the paper and studied it intently.
“It’s a code,” he cried, “a naval code, evidently the very one they
used to communicate with those boats. I’ll wager the Washington people
even haven’t a copy of it. That’s a great find. Come on, we’ve got
enough for one night.”
“Do any of the men in our party understand wireless?” asked Jane as
they descended.
“Sure,” said Carter, “Sills does. He used to be the radio man on a
battleship.”
“Couldn’t he be left on watch here?” suggested Jane, “and try to signal
those X-boats and keep them waiting until to-morrow night? Maybe by
that time our—”
“I get you,” cried Carter; “that’s a good idea. Explain it to the
Chief.”
As Jane unfolded her plan, suggesting the possibility of sending
American cruisers out to search for the X-boats after Sills had lured
them by false messages to the surface, Fleck heartily approved of it.
“I’ll leave Sills here with one other man to guard the house,” he said.
“We’ll have to let poor Dean’s body remain here for the present, too.
We’ll need all the room in the cars for the prisoners.”
There was still much to be done. While some of the men were
unceremoniously carrying out the shackled prisoners and piling them in
the cars, others, under Carter’s direction, crippled the three
“wonder-workers” and dismantled them, carrying their dangerous cargo of
bombs into the woods and concealing them.
None of the prisoners, since the moment the shackles had been put on,
had uttered a word. Sullen silence held all of them unprotestingly in
its grip. Even Frederic kept his peace, though from time to time his
glance roved about, seeking Jane, and always in his eyes was a strange
look, not of defeat, nor of shame, but rather of exultant triumph. Jane
still dared not trust herself to look in his direction, but Fleck and
Carter, too, observed curiously the expression in his eyes. Was he,
they wondered, rejoicing over Dean’s untimely end? Did he, with true
Prussian arrogance, in spite of the failure of his plot, still dare to
hope that with Dean out of the way, he might escape punishment and yet
win Jane Strong? Even as they picked him up, the last of the prisoners,
and put him in the rear seat of the chief’s car, his eyes still sought
for Jane.
It was long after midnight before the strange cavalcade left the
mountain shack. Fleck’s car led the way, with the chief himself at the
wheel, and Jane beside him. Crowded on the rear seat were Frederic and
two other prisoners, and standing in the tonneau, facing them with his
revolver drawn in case they should make an attempt to escape in spite
of their shackles, was Fleck’s chauffeur. Carter was at the wheel of
the second car with five prisoners and a man on guard, and the
arrangement in the third car was the same. Six men and a girl to
transport thirteen prisoners! Inwardly Fleck was congratulating himself
on his forethought in having provided shackles enough to go around, for
otherwise he surely would have had a perilous job on his hands.
As they rode down the mountain lane, Jane rejoiced at the darkness that
hid her face, both from Fleck and from Frederic on the seat behind. Now
that there was no activity to distract her maddening thoughts once more
paced in turmoil through her brain. She loved this man, and she was
leading him to disgrace and death. She hated and despised him. He was a
treacherous, dangerous enemy of her country whom she had helped to
trap, and she was glad, glad, glad. No, no! She wasn’t glad. She loved
him. He had given her that sealed packet and had charged her to keep it
for him. He couldn’t be all bad. Why must she love him? Her mind told
her he was a criminal, an enemy, a spy, a murderer, yet her wilful
heart insisted that she loved him. How strange life was! She and
Frederic loved each other. Why could they not marry and be happy? Why
was War? Why must nations fight? Why must people hate each other? Was
the whole world mad? Was she going mad herself?
Slowly and carefully, Fleck, with his lights on full, had steered the
automobile down the narrow roadway through the woods. He had just
turned the car safely into the main road, and stopped to look back to
see how closely the other cars were following. Suddenly from the
wayside a dozen men in uniform sprang up, the glint of their guns made
visible by the automobile lights.
“Halt,” cried a voice of authority.
The one glimpse he had caught of the uniform had conveyed to Fleck the
welcome fact that the party surrounding him were Americans—cavalry
troopers.
“Chief Fleck,” he announced, by way of identification. “Who are you?”
A tall figure in officer’s clothes sprang up on the running board and
peered into Fleck’s face.
“Thank God, Chief,” he said, “that it’s you.”
“Colonel Brook-White,” cried Fleck in amazement, recognizing the voice
as that of one of the officers in charge of the British Government’s
Intelligence Service in America. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to round up some bally German spies,” explained Brook-White.
“I’ve beaten you to it,” cried Fleck, with a note of triumph in his
tone. “I’ve got them all here in shackles.”
“Good,” said Brook-White delightedly. “I was fearful I’d be too late.
There was delay in getting a message to me. As soon as I had it, I
tried to reach you and couldn’t. I dared not wait but dashed up here in
my car. I knew there were some American troopers camped near here, and
I persuaded the commander to detail some of his men to help me. Did you
really capture the Hoff chap, old Otto?”
“He’s better than captured,” said Fleck. “He’s lying dead back there in
the house.”
“Good,” cried Brook-White. “He was infernally dangerous according to my
advices—but Captain Seymour—where is he? Wasn’t he working with you?”
“Captain Seymour?” cried Fleck in astonishment. “I never heard of him.
Who’s Captain Seymour?”
“He’s one of my chaps,” explained Brook-White. “Wasn’t it he who
steered you up here?”
“I should say not,” said Fleck emphatically.
“Good Lord,” cried the British colonel excitedly. “You don’t suppose
those bloody Boches got him at the last—after all he’s been through? I
hope he’s safe.”
“Don’t worry, Colonel Brook-White,” came the calm voice of Frederic
Hoff from the rear seat. “Chief Fleck has me here safe in shackles with
the other prisoners.”
“God,” cried Fleck, in astonished perplexity. “Is Frederic Hoff a
Britisher—one of your men?”
“Rather,” said Brook-White. “Chief Fleck, may I present Captain Sir
Frederic Seymour, of the Royal Kentish Dragoons.”
But Fleck was too busy just then to heed the introduction, or to pay
attention to the muttered “_Donnerwetters_” of indignation that burst
from the lips of his other prisoners.
Jane Strong had fainted dead away against his shoulder.