The dangerous game
of inexpressible sadness in them, and jumped to the natural conclusion
that he was thinking of Elaine. Indeed, she made a remark to that
effect.
“No, I’m sure I was not,” he protested. Then, in excuse, he went on:
“I may often appear distracted, but it is then I am thinking of the
story I am writing. Novelists must be thoughtful sometimes, you know,
if their soul is in their work. No artistic effort can be accomplished
without whole-hearted application and all-absorbed concentration.”
“I thought you never concentrated on anything,” she said with a merry
smile. “You are always so easy-going and light-hearted. You cannot
have any cares or troubles like other men.”
He smiled--rather sadly perhaps.
What would she think did she know of that terribly heavy burden of
responsibility which ever rested upon his shoulders--how, thanks to
his active brain, the British Cabinet were kept informed of the
constant plots of the Powers of Europe against the country’s prestige
and safety? What would she think of those shrewd eyes and sharp ears
of his spread out through his secret agents all over the world, or of
the cleverly-conceived counter-plots which he was ever directing?
Elaine knew something of his secret work. She had discovered it one
day by reading a document which she had found lying upon his
writing-table, that big, roll-top, littered table which stood in the
adjoining room. She had confessed to him that her woman’s curiosity
had overcome her, whereupon he revealed one or two facts, hence more
than once he had sought her opinion when he required that of a woman
of quick intelligence and shrewd evasiveness. But Edris was in
ignorance of his other personality. She, like all the world, regarded
him as a popular novelist, and not even one of her favorite writers.
She had once told him how, before they met, she had taken down one of
his novels in a lending library, opened it, scanned the first page,
and at once put it back again as uninteresting. She wanted a
love-story, and she knew that he seldom wrote about passion.
“I have quite as many cares as everyone else,” he declared, “only I do
not wear my heart on my sleeve, as some other men do,” he added
meaningly. “Perhaps I have more responsibilities than some others. But
I suppose we each of us think our load of worry is greater than that
of our neighbor.”
“Well, you are the most light-hearted man I’ve ever met. Most men of
your age are decrepit, crotchety, or faddy. You’re neither. Why, when
you ski at Wengen everyone declares your vitality to be marvelous.”
Darville smiled again, yet at heart he was rather piqued at the
reference to his years, for it was a very sore point with him.
He again looked at the sweet-faced, athletic girl before him. Could
she ever bring herself to love a man of his years, he wondered? Dare
he ever put such an outrageous question to her? He held his breath at
the mere thought of it, and then decided that her presence there was
only a bitter taunt which he had brought upon himself. He should have
been more circumspect. In all his years he had never loved, and he
felt that the situation he himself had been foolish enough to create
was an entirely ludicrous one.
Till nearly midnight they sat chatting until, after she had drunk a
glass of port and eaten a biscuit, she rose to go to her room.
He bent over her hand and kissed it with his innate gallantry. Then,
wishing her good-night, he held open the door, and she, with a
laughing “Good-night, Seton,” passed in and locked it behind her.
For another half hour he sat by the dying fire smoking and thinking,
until at last he went to his own room, where, changing into an old
coat, he sat down at his table, and took up the threads of his new
story which he had been compelled to break off so suddenly in Corfu.
Outside, the wind had suddenly sprung up to half a gale, as it so
often does in the Channel, and there came to him the beat and roar of
the waves upon the beach--music always to his ears, for he loved the
sea, just as did the girl he adored, who was sleeping in the guest’s
room at the back, quiet and undisturbed. He had chosen that front room
overlooking the sea as his own, and his workroom also, because he
loved to wake in the morning and gaze upon the open space of sky and
water. Though he posed as a materialist, a man-about-town, a lover of
women--which he never had been--a traveler, and a popular figure in
the world, with his photograph ever in the picture-papers, yet at
heart he was shy, modest, and very unassuming. He hated publicity, but
it had been forced upon him owing to his popularity as a writer of
fiction.
The silence of the night was unbroken save for the thunder of the
waves, sometimes followed by a loud swish as they swept upon the
promenade. Once he paused during his writing. He thought he heard a
sound in Edris’s room, and noiselessly passed into the sitting-room,
where he stood listening. But all was silence, so he returned to his
work, and continued until half-past two. Then he put down his pen,
mixed himself a drink, and, lighting a cigarette, switched off the
light and stood for a long time gazing out upon the storm-tossed
waters, thinking deeply of the sleeping girl within.
He wondered, and still wondered. Dare he reveal to her the secret of
his love? Through those many months his heart had been bursting with
that affection which he had so carefully concealed, and even now,
though the barrier of her engagement to that impossible young lover
had been removed, yet there still remained that one of age--one that
it was impossible to overlook, avoid, or remove.
If he summoned courage and told her the truth she would only laugh at
him, he thought. No, the whole thing was a dream that could never be
realized. Love had come to him too late in his life. A lump arose in
his throat, and tears came to his eyes. She could never be his, alas!
Never!
In the darkness he stood motionless for a long time, gazing blankly
out upon the surf, which showed white and boiling in the light of the
lamps on the promenade. Low sobs escaped him from time to time, until
at last, with a long, heavy sigh, he drew down the blind, and,
switching on the light, retired to rest in his narrow little bed.
Next morning was Sunday. When he entered the sitting-room, where
breakfast was laid for two, he found Edris already sitting by the
fire, reading the newspaper.
He kissed her hand, as was his wont, and greeted her merrily, asking
if she had slept well.
“Quite well,” was her reply, as she lifted her dancing gray eyes to
his. “But I’ve just read of a most mysterious catastrophe which
happened last night under the Forth Bridge near Edinburgh. Read it,”
she said, handing him the newspaper.
“The Forth Bridge!” he echoed breathlessly, as he eagerly took the
paper and saw the great headlines in heavy type.
What he read was as follows:
“The Central News’ Edinburgh correspondent telegraphs that a
mysterious affair took place beneath the Forth Bridge, near the center
of the gigantic structure, just after midnight. Details are meager,
because of the extreme reticence of the police, but as far as can be
ascertained, a daring and desperate attempt has been made to mine the
bridge ready for its destruction at some near date in the future, and
thus bottle up our naval base at Rosyth by means of the great mass of
steel of which the huge railway-bridge is constructed.
“It seems that by some secret means the authorities had learned of the
enemy conspiracy, and took means to combat it. For the past three
nights a motor patrol-boat has been observed in the vicinity of the
bridge, but, some repairs to the base of one of the steel towers which
support the bridge 360 feet above the water being in progress, no
notice was taken of its presence.
“Early this morning, however, the patrol-boat was seen to be moored
for a short time to the granite pier which, in the middle of the
waterway, rests on the small island of Inchgarvie, and presently it
left hurriedly towards Burntisland. At that moment another fast
motor-boat containing five men put out from South Queensferry, and
after a stern chase, was gradually overtaking it. Shots were fired
repeatedly from the escaping boat, until at last they were replied to
by the pursuers. A sharp fusillade ensued. Suddenly the crackle of a
machine-gun mounted on the pursuing boat was heard, and the next
moment, from the first boat, there was a bright red flash, and an
explosion so terrific that more than twenty houses on the shore of the
firth were wrecked, happily without any loss of life. The boat
apparently carried some highly powerful explosive, which was detonated
by a bullet, and was blown out of the water, the occupants, said to be
four men and a woman, being entirely wiped out of existence. No trace
of either the boat or its occupants has been found.
“Up to the present the affair is a complete mystery, save for the fact
that several rubber hot-water bottles, filled with some new liquid
explosive of a highly-powerful nature, were subsequently found
attached to the bases of two of the supporting piers below low-water
mark and connected with small electrical contrivances for detonating
the whole of the explosive at the same moment.
“Through the vigilance of the authorities the gigantic bridge has been
saved from destruction, though the plotters themselves have lost their
lives in their desperate attempt to put the bridge in readiness for
destruction at any moment.”
Seton Darville, having scanned the lines eagerly, handed the paper
back to the girl.
“Isn’t it extraordinary?” she asked. “They evidently were German
secret agents preparing for the next war. Don’t you think so?”
“Perhaps,” replied Darville unconcernedly. “At any rate, they have
received their deserts.”
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