The village of Feltham is a sleepy little place standing in the centre
of a bare, flat country half-way between Twickenham and Staines. It is
still quite a rural spot, even though only a league outside the
twelve-mile radius.
When I alighted from the train which had brought me down from Waterloo
on the third day after leaving the sunshine of the Mediterranean, a cold
cast wind was blowing, and the platform was covered with finely powdered
snow. I had as companions three plain-clothes officers from Scotland
Yard, one of whom was Inspector Chick of the special political branch of
the Criminal Investigation Department. Application for assistance to
the Commissioner had quickly been responded to, and outside the station
we were met by the local plain-clothes constable of the T Division, who
had been informed by telegraph of our advent. On my arrival in London
that morning I had received a telegram from the police at Bordighera
stating that Paolo Bertini was already under arrest.
We at once inquired the whereabouts of Cypress Cottage, and the local
officer explained that it was a lonely house, situated nearly three
miles away across the plain beyond Ashford, towards the valley of the
Thames. We therefore obtained a wagonette at the station inn, and were
very soon driving in company over the snow-covered road towards the spot
indicated.
About a mile beyond Ashford village Chick, who directed the operations,
ordered the coachman to stop, and he and I descended. In the distance
we could see outlined against the gloomy, snow-laden sky a small,
whitewashed cottage, standing where the road we were traversing made a
junction with the high road between Staines and Kingston. This the
local constable pointed out as our goal. It was a truly lonely place of
residence, for there seemed no other house within a radius of several
miles.
Chick, nimble of wit and resourceful, decided that we both should
approach the place on foot, investigate, and endeavour to enter upon
some pretext, while our three companions, at the moment of our entry,
should drive up, leave the wagonette, and surround the place.
As soon as we had arranged our plan of operations, I buttoned my coat
and strode on beside the inspector, who now took from his hip pocket a
police-revolver and placed it in readiness in the outside pocket of his
overcoat. With what resistance we might meet, or what was to be the
nature of our discovery, we knew not. The revelation made by Edith was,
to say the least of it, one of the strangest in my experience.
At last, after trudging through the snow, which lay thickly upon that
road, we reached the cottage, a rather ill-kept place of about six
rooms, and walked up the pathway to the door. That it was inhabited was
shown by the smoke ascending from one of the chimneys and the stunted
geraniums which screened the windows on the inside.
Chick knocked at the door, but for some anxious moments no response was
made to his summons. Both of us listened attentively, and distinctly
heard the shuffling of feet within, accompanied by an ominous whispering
and the low growl of a dog, which was apparently being ordered to remain
quiet.
"I hope these good people are not out," Chick exclaimed in a loud voice,
with a meaning look. "It's evident we've lost our way."
His words were heard by those within, and apparently at once disarmed
suspicion, for in a few seconds the door was thrown open, and a tall,
bony-faced woman of middle age confronted us with a look of inquiry.
She was grey-haired, with a face which bore evident signs of the burdens
of life.
"I'm very sorry to trouble you," explained the inspector. "But we have
unfortunately lost our way. We are strangers here. Could you direct us
to the road to Littleton?"
"Certainly, gentlemen," she answered. "Take the road along here to the
left, and the Littleton road is the first on the left again. You can't
mistake it. There's a sign-post up."
Scarcely had the woman finished her sentence, however, before Chick
pushed her aside and entered the place, I following close behind. The
height of the woman was uncommon, and it occurred to me that she was the
mysterious female who had watched me on the Calais boat some months
before.
She gave a warning shout, and an ugly bulldog, released from the room
beyond, came bounding fiercely upon us. Quick as thought Chick drew his
revolver and shot the brute dead. The woman screamed "Murder!" So
well-timed was our raid that at this very moment we heard outside the
shouts of our companions, telling us that they had surrounded the place.
Those moments were full of wild excitement. From one room to another we
dashed quickly, but discovered absolutely nothing to arouse any
suspicions until we started to ascend the narrow flight of stairs, when,
on doing so, we were suddenly confronted by the dark figure of a man
standing at the head, with a revolver pointed straight at us. He spoke
no word, but I was amazed to recognise him as the man who had once
before made a dastardly attempt upon my life--Rodolphe Wolf! Then I
knew that that cottage, as Edith had declared, contained the key to the
mystery.
"If you attempt to come up here, I shall shoot!" cried the spy in
English.
"I call upon you, in the name of the law, to surrender as my prisoner,"
responded Chick firmly in his loud, ringing voice. "I don't know your
name, but I arrest you all the same."
"His name is Wolf," I explained breathlessly. "He is Rodolphe Wolf, the
French spy!"
It seemed that then for the first time did the fellow recognise me, for,
peering down, he cried: "It is you--you! Gerald Ingram!"
"Yes," I answered. "Your secret is out! We know the truth!
Surrender!"
"Never!" he shouted, standing at bay. "Advance a step, and I'll shoot
you both dead."
"The place is surrounded. You cannot escape," Chick replied. "I am an
officer of Metropolitan Police, and command you to lay down your
weapon."
But he refused, and we both saw that to ascend that narrow staircase in
face of his revolver was a very risky proceeding. A dozen times Chick
repeated the demand, but the adventurer was nothing daunted. The
secret, if anywhere, was in that room, and he was evidently determined
to guard it with his life.
Of a sudden the inspector, handing me the revolver, whispered to me to
remain there, covering Wolf so as to prevent his escape, and assured me
that he would return instantly. He rushed outside, but returned to my
side in a few moments.
The vituperation which Rodolphe Wolf heaped upon me I need not repeat.
Suffice it to say that during the few minutes which elapsed while we
faced one another in that narrow way, each unable to move, he invoked
upon my head all the curses of the evil one, vowing a revenge swift and
terrible, not only upon myself, but also upon Leonie and Edith.
With a suddenness that startled all of us, however, there was a loud
crashing of glass in the room behind him, and, thus taken by surprise,
he turned to see how it had been caused.
In an instant Chick had sprung up the stairs, and we were both upon him.
The spy fired his revolver, but at random, and the bullet pierced the
ceiling. The inspector closed with him in deadly embrace, and a second
later was assisted by one of the detectives, who had broken the window
and entered the room by a ladder.
The fellow still held his weapon in a desperate grasp, and, having
succeeded in pinning Chick against the wall, raised the revolver to his
face. At that instant the other officer threw himself upon the pair.
Wolf's revolver exploded, but the bullet, instead of entering Chick's
head, penetrated the spy's own neck, close behind the ear.
"Dieu!" he shrieked, "I'm shot! I've shot myself!" and as his grip
relaxed, the two detectives allowed him to stagger and fall back upon
the ground.
In endeavouring to murder the inspector he had inflicted a fatal wound
upon himself.
Chick, who had had such a narrow escape from death, only brushed his
clothes here and there, and remarked with a smile:
"That was pretty tough, sir, wasn't it?"
Then, ordering his assistant to look after the wounded prisoner, we both
searched the room. At first we saw nothing to account for Wolf
resisting our progress so desperately. It was a bare place, with a
couple of tables, a chair or two, and a few papers that had been strewn
about in the struggle. I picked up some. They were copies of the
_Figaro_, the _Libre Parole_, and the _Petit Journal_.
But in a corner by the fireplace, I saw a twisted heap of pale-green
paper, like ribbon, and a moment later found beneath the table a broken
telegraph-receiver. On taking it up I saw upon the small brass plate
the words "General Post Office," while near it lay the other portions of
the apparatus, which was one of those which print upon the paper ribbon,
and are worked by clockwork.
"Hulloa!" cried Chick, crossing the room and bending over the
instrument, "what's that?"
"A telegraph-receiver," I replied, at the same moment examining the
ceiling of the room and at once discovering two loose ends of wires
suspended from a corner.
The instrument had evidently been torn hurriedly from the wires, and an
unsuccessful effort made to destroy it and remove all traces of its
existence. Wolf, however, had not had time to accomplish his object.
While the wounded man lay groaning, we all proceeded to make further
search, and the result of our investigations proved startling indeed.
We found that from the room there ran two wires outside, which, after
being buried in the garden and along a field on the left, emerged beside
one of the telegraph-posts on the main road, and joined one of the lines
running to London.
At first we did not realise the extreme importance of our discovery, but
from the telegraph-tape found in the room and the deciphers of official
despatches which we discovered locked in a cupboard, the amazing truth
was disclosed.
The wire so ingeniously tapped was the Queen's private wire, which ran
from Windsor Castle, along the road through Staines and Kingston, to the
Foreign Office, and over which Her Majesty constantly exchanged views
and gave instructions to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and
others of her Ministers.
In that comfortless room we found transcripts of all kinds of official
despatches and confidential messages, which, although sent in cipher
over the wire, had been deciphered by the spies, who had unfortunately
also obtained a copy of the secret code in use. The interchanges of
views included much that concerned England's attitude in the Boer war,
then still in progress, and had without doubt been communicated to the
Boers through their Continental agents. Not a single secret of State
was safe from those emissaries of our enemies. Thus it was that before
the suggestions or instructions of our Sovereign reached Downing Street,
they were in the possession of those who aimed at our downfall, for
every message transmitted between Windsor and Downing Street, every
decision of the Sovereign or of the Cabinet, passed through that
inoffensive-looking little instrument, and was registered upon the
pale-green snake-like tape before it reached its destination.
A thorough search of the place revealed a perfect system of receiving
and deciphering the despatches, all of which had been carefully
registered by number in a book and the copies sent to the Quai d'Orsay.
Hence it was, of course, that the knowledge of England's decision
regarding the attitude to be adopted towards the Transvaal and of our
policy in reference to Ceuta, had been obtained before the Marquess had
even written his despatch; while the secret instructions which I myself
had carried from Downing Street to Paris had actually been known to the
spies before the Chief had put his pen to paper. They did not seek to
secure the despatches, because they were always in possession of the
decisions and line of our diplomacy beforehand.
Having taken possession of the whole of the papers, some of which I was
amazed to discover were in Edith's handwriting, we removed the whole
into the wagonette, placed a constable in charge of the cottage, and
ordered the wounded man's removal to the Cottage Hospital at Staines, as
being the nearest institution where he could be treated.
That same evening I had a long interview with the Marquess at his
private house, and, assisted by Chick, showed him the papers secured as
the result of our investigations. Afterwards, when he had gone through
them, I related to him the whole story, concealing nothing. While I sat
recounting the incidents a telegram arrived for the inspector, to whom
it had been forwarded from Scotland Yard. It was an official police
message stating that the prisoner Wolf had died in the hospital at
half-past six, having made no statement.
Her Majesty's Minister heard me through, listening with breathless
interest, and when I had concluded bestowed upon both of us many
complimentary words.
"Both your Queen and your country owe a debt of gratitude to you,
Ingram; for by dint of care and perseverance you have rescued us from
our secret enemies," he said. "Rest assured that your claim to
distinction as an Englishman will not be forgotten."
That night I sent a telegram from Charing Cross announcing to Leonie the
death of the spy, which to her meant freedom. The same wire also
carried a second message of comfort to Edith, with the promise that I
would leave London for Bordighera on the following morning. Then,
entering the telephone-box, I had a long conversation with Lord
Barmouth, explaining to him the truth, and receiving his heartiest
congratulations and best wishes for my happiness on my marriage with
Edith Austin, who, he declared, had saved England's prestige.