Chapter XIV: 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.”