The Men Who Wrought

He held the watch in the palm of his hand, and his eyes were bent upon its face, marking the progress of the second hand. The influence of his attitude was tremendous. He was a perfect master of the methods which he represented. No one could have observed him and failed to realize that here was a man who, with the same extraordinary callousness, could easily have stepped to the side of a fainting woman, and, without a qualm, have placed the muzzle of a revolver to her temple and blown her brains out, as had been done in Belgium.

Vita watched him, fascinated and terrified. The silent moments slipped away with the inevitability which no human power can stay.

Von Berger looked up. The measure of his eyes was coldly calculating.

"You have ten seconds," he said, and returned to his contemplation of the moving hand.

The strain was unendurable. Vita felt that she must scream. Her will was yielding before the moral terror this man inspired. There was no hope of help. No hope anywhere. The fire shook down, and she started, her nerves on edge. She glanced over at Von Salzinger. Instantly his features stirred to that meaning expression of sympathy. Now, however, it only revolted her, and, as though drawn by a magnet, her eyes came back to the bent head of Von Berger.

Simultaneously the man looked up and snapped his watch closed and returned it to his pocket.

"Well?" he demanded, and the whole expression of him had changed.

Vita saw the tigerish light suddenly leap into his eyes. The man was transfigured. She warned herself he was no longer a man. She could only regard him as something in the nature of a human tiger.

"I will go," she said, in a voice rendered thick by her terror-parched throat.

"Ja wohl!"

Von Berger turned and signed to his confederate.

CHAPTER XX

BAR-LEIGHTON

The face that gazed out at the driving October rain was one whose expression of unrelieved misery and hopelessness might well have melted a heart of flint. The wide, grey eyes had lost their languorous melting delight, which had been replaced by one of driven desperation. Dark, unhealthy rings had sunk their way into the young surrounding flesh. They were the rings of sleeplessness, and an ominous indication of the mental attitude behind them. The oval of the cheeks had become pinched and pale, while the drooping lips added a pathos that must have been irresistible to a heart of human feeling.

Vita was a prisoner in the hands of men without scruple or mercy. At least one of them she knew could claim all and more than such words expressed. Of the other she was less convinced. In fact, it was the thought that he was, perhaps, simply under the control of the other which, she told herself, made sanity possible. But even so it was the vaguest, wildest hope, and only in the nature of a straw to which to cling in her desperation.

The window from which she looked out gave upon a wildly desolate scene. She was down deep, almost in the bowels of the earth, she admitted, and the rugged sides of the chasm, clad in a garment of dark conifers and leafless branches, rose up abruptly in every direction her window permitted her gaze to wander.

She had no understanding of where she was. The journey had been long. It had been swift, too, under the skillful driving of Frederick von Berger, beside whom Von Salzinger had travelled. She had a vague understanding that the moon had been shining somewhere behind the car most of the time. Therefore she had decided they were travelling westwards. Then had come the dawn which had found them racing across a wide and desolate moorland, in a gale of wind and a deluge of driving rain, with dense mist clouds filling to overflowing sharp and narrow hollows which dropped away from the high level like bottomless pits of mystery and dread.

There had been nobody inside the car to question but her maid, Francella, and Vita had steadfastly denied herself any form of intercourse with the woman, under the certainty that she formed part of the Secret Service with which all unknowingly she had been surrounded.

Then had come a moment when her straining eyes, striving to penetrate the rain-streaming windows, had detected a distant view of a stretch of water. She had not been certain at first. But later she had detected the hazy outline of a steamboat upon it, with a long streaming smoke-line lying behind it. So she made up her mind it was the sea.

Even this, however, gave her no real cue to her whereabouts. For a moment she thought of Dartmoor, but later on she believed that that desolate wilderness was well inland.

Later again, all speculation had been yielded up under the painful interest of the moment. They were driving along the edge of a deep, mist-laden ravine. Vita had gazed down upon it in awed contemplation. It was narrow and precipitous. Then had happened something which made her shiver and clutch at the sides of the car. The driver had swung round a fierce hairpin bend in the road. The next moment the downward incline made her seek support lest she should slide from her seat. In a moment the car was swallowed up in the dense white fog of the ravine.

So she had come to her prison, which she learned accidentally was called Bar-Leighton. Whether the name applied to the house or to the locality she never knew. It was a big rambling mansion, deep hidden in a close surrounding of trees, nor, as far as Vita could see, was the ravine occupied by any other habitation.

This was the second day of her imprisonment. It had been raining when she arrived. It was still raining. It looked as if it were likely to continue raining for a month. Vita had spent most of her time gazing out of the window. She was heart-broken and desperate.

She had no eyes for anything but the cheerless view beyond the window. Its attraction was small enough in its repellent austerity, but it represented freedom. It represented the life which was forbidden her. Somewhere out there beyond, miles and miles away, was the love of her life, maybe vainly seeking her. Somewhere out there all that made for her happiness in life lay beyond her reach. Would she ever recover it? Would she ever listen to those calm tones of encouragement, and purpose, and love again? It seemed impossible. It seemed as though the end of all things was about to be achieved for her, now that the savage hand of Prussian tyranny had been laid upon her.

The treatment meted out to her had been by no means hard so far. She occupied a suite of apartments unusually handsome and spacious. But they led from one into the other, and all the outer doors were securely locked. She had been handed over to a hard-faced matron of German nationality on her arrival, nor, from that moment, had she been permitted sight of either of her male captors.

It was this dreadful isolation, this suspense, which affected her. Was she to remain here indefinitely, ignorant of her father's movements, of all that might be happening to her lover, of the possible disaster to all those plans to which she had so completely lent herself? The thought was maddening. It was completely unbearable. She wanted to weep, to scream. But she did neither. She sat on in a window-seat in the splendid sitting-room, and gazed miserably out on the depressing aspect which thrust her lower and lower in the deeps of despair.

If Vita had been permitted no further sight of her captors it was not because they had taken their departure from the precincts of the prison they had prepared for her. On the contrary. With the arrival of Prince von Berger at this retreat, hidden so deeply in the remoteness of some of the wildest of the west country, the place became a hive of secret activity. Many visitors came and went, but mostly at night. And so contrived were their movements, that never for one moment did the mansion lose its appearance of neglect in the hands of an indifferent caretaker.

Amongst those who visited the place at night was Johann Stryj, and with him a man named Emile Heuferman. It was a far cry from Dorby to Bar-Leighton, but distance seemed to have no concern for these people, who were served by cars of great speed and power. It was obvious that Frederick von Berger's visit to England had been the cue for great activity in the underworld of the Secret Service, and that far-reaching powers were in his control.

While Vita watched the desolation of rain-washed woodlands, Von Berger was occupied with Johann Stryj and Heuferman in a library, which had obviously once been the pride of a previous owner of the house. Von Salzinger was in attendance, too, and, for more than two hours, it was pretty evident these four had been in close consultation on matters of vital interest.

It was obvious, too, that Heuferman was of lesser degree than his companion, Stryj, for it was to the latter Von Berger chiefly addressed himself and from whom he extracted the information he needed. All the talk was of Dorby, and during it the name of Farlow frequently mixed itself into the details. The manner of these men was devoid of all heat. Von Berger might have been a machine, so frigidly precise was his whole attitude. Johann Stryj spoke only the words necessary, with an effect and decision which must have left nothing to be desired by his exalted superior. Von Salzinger was reduced to a mere observer, but Heuferman became an object for the reception of explicit instructions, which, for the most part, he received with monosyllabic acquiescence.

It was in the middle of the afternoon that the meeting terminated. When Johann Stryj and his companion had taken their departure Frederick von Berger turned to the silent ex-Captain-General. His eyes were speculative. It was the cold calculation of a mind seeking to complete a half-formed train of thought.

"What were your relations with this woman – before the war?"

Von Salzinger started. A flush tinted his heavy features a sort of copper hue.

"I – don't understand, Excellency."

That odd flicker of the eyelids which seemed to be the only indication of a lighter mood accompanied Von Berger's next words.

"Yet it is not difficult. Information tells us that you at one time sought to marry her. Since coming to England you renewed your acquaintance. I desire the exact explanation. I may need to use the – relationship."

The flush had left the other's cheeks. His eyes took on a smile of meaning.

"At one time I had such thoughts. Now I have no desire to – marry her."

"Ah!"

Von Berger had faced round from the library table at which he was seated, and, crossing his legs, sat contemplatively with his elbows supported on the arms of his chair and his chin resting upon his clasped hands.

Von Salzinger stirred.

"I regard her now as one of my country's enemies. There can be no thought of marriage with one's country's enemy. Such can never receive the consideration we display towards our own womankind. In war the woman is the prize of the victor. That is real war."

The callous brutality of the man was revolting. But the other gave no sign. He contented himself with a continuance of his cold regard, and a further ejaculation.

Encouraged by this negative sign of approval Von Salzinger ventured an interrogation.

"How can my relations with her further your plans, Excellency?"

"I am not quite sure – yet." Then Von Berger bestirred himself. "It is necessary to lay hands on Von Hertzwohl – at once, and – "

He broke off. At that moment a knock at the door interrupted him.

Von Salzinger sprang to his feet and hurried across the room. After reclosing the door he returned to Von Berger.

"Vassilitz has brought this telegram. It arrived last night at Redwithy Farm. Does your Excellency wish to speak to him?"

Von Berger took the message and opened it. It was addressed to Madame Vladimir at Redwithy Farm. The set of his features relaxed as he read the brief communication. Then he passed it across to Von Salzinger.

"Much news in a few words," was his comment.

The other perused the telegram carefully. It came from Dorby —

"All's well. Arrived safely. Returning to town. Love. – Ruxton."

"It means – ?"

"Von Hertzwohl has arrived in England. At Dorby. Also that he returns to London – Farlow, I mean, and that he is obviously the lover of the woman whom you regard as the prize of the victor. Tell Vassilitz to return to the farm without delay, to remain watchful, and to continue to act as instructed. I must interview the Princess."

Vita's painful contemplation and misery were rudely broken in upon. Just as the shadows of the dreary day were beginning to deepen prematurely the door of her sitting-room was silently thrust open, and Frederick von Berger made his unwelcome appearance.

He stood for one moment contemplating the beautiful drooping figure without the smallest sign of emotion. Then he moved forward over the polished floor, and the sound of his approach acted like an electric current upon the woman at the window. She had been caught at a disadvantage, but, in an instant, all her pride and courage rose superior to every other emotion. She sat up, and the haughty displeasure in her eyes found vent in cold words which must have stung deeply any other personality but that of their present object.

"It would be superfluous to protest at an intrusion where neither honesty, justice, nor a sense of decency exists. All I can hope for is that whatever your business may be you will complete it, and relieve me of your obnoxious presence as quickly as possible."

There was a cold scorn in the simple words which was enhanced threefold by reason of the calm with which they were delivered.

If Frederick von Berger appreciated it he gave no sign. The words might not have been spoken in so far as they deflected for a second the purpose of his coming.

He came close up to the window in which Vita was sitting. His gaze avoided her and was directed towards the gloomy prospect beyond it. His powerful figure was carried erectly, doubtless from the severity of his early military training, but it possessed a litheness quite unusual, a litheness which the angular figure of Von Salzinger completely lacked. The latent strength of the man was indomitable, and under other conditions it would have been something the woman must have admired. Now she only saw the cruelty in his hard eyes, and the absolutely cold set of the features which seemed rendered immobile thereby.

He raised one foot and rested it upon the window-seat, and, bending so that an arm rested upon his knee, he glanced down into the averted face.

"I have come to tell you that your position has somewhat changed since you became my guest here," he said, in level tones. "To my very great regret it has been discovered that you are as deeply concerned in the plot which has cost us the secrets of Borga as those others. I have received a telegram, intended for you, announcing your father's arrival in this country. The manner in which it is written conveys beyond doubt that you are perfectly intimate with all the plans of the conspiracy, and even that one of the people most concerned is your lover. So you see that changes the aspect of the matter so far as you are concerned."

"You have intercepted a message from Mr. Ruxton Farlow?"

Vita's face was no longer averted. All her woman's pride was outraged. To think that this creature's eyes should have read the lines which Ruxton had meant only for hers. She thought nothing of the significance of her own position as a result of that letter. Only was the sacrilege this man had committed apparent to her.

She believed she was dealing merely with a mechanism of Prussian tyranny. She was incapable of regarding this man as anything else. But Frederick von Berger had calculated every word he had uttered. Human nature was a lifelong study with him – even that which he could claim for his own.

"Exactly," he replied. "And the fact has made your position very precarious, very precarious indeed."

The significance of his simple statement would no longer be denied. Vita caught her breath. Her swift, upward glance in his direction had something of the alarm which he desired to witness in it.

He removed his foot from the silken cushion and stood up.

"Princess," he went on, "I came to England with very stringent orders – "

"Who gives Frederick von Berger orders?" cried Vita impulsively. "Not even the Emperor. There is only one person who gives orders to Prince von Berger in Germany – himself. It is useless to deny it. All that you have done here – are doing – is of your own initiative."

But the man continued as though the interruption had not taken place.

"The orders I have received admit of only one course of action – the punishment by death of the traitors to my country, and the complete nullification of the effects of the plot. These things will be carried out regardless of all cost and consequence. There will be no tempering with mercy. Justice, cold justice alone will be meted out – regardless of sex."

"The question of justice I doubt. The matter of sex is a foregone conclusion. There is ample precedent for that."

The bitterness of the woman's words came from her heart. She knew that he was threatening that her life was forfeit, but the fact seemed to leave her untouched since that first swift glance of apprehension.

"The point is not one which I care to debate," the man returned, with his curious, simple directness. "It is not for me to possess an opinion on any matter where authority or the conduct of the State is concerned. I can only assure you that duty will be carried out inexorably. For you the position becomes deplorable. For you to have committed yourself to intrigues which have for their purpose the betrayal of your country is an outrage which calls for no mercy. You will have to face a penalty similar to that which awaits your father. That penalty is – death."

"Death!"

The echo came in a whisper. It was a startled whisper, as though Vita's brain were striving to grasp the full significance of the word as applied to herself. Her eyes were no longer on the man's face. They were contemplating the scene beyond the window without observing it.

Then, slowly, a change came over her. Her body seemed to draw itself erect. The scorn that had lain in her eyes a few minutes ago had given place to a curious cold calm. Her shapely lips compressed tightly, and she faced unflinchingly the man who had pronounced the sentence. Her eyes regarded him for some thoughtful moments. It almost seemed as though she were striving to probe beneath that cold mask to the thoughts and emotions which she felt must lie behind it. Then a curious smile grew in them, a smile of renewed contempt that must have been insupportable to a man of any feeling.

"And the alternative? I suppose there is an alternative. A death sentence so pronounced is generally inspired by an all-important alternative. Do you desire me to betray my friends? Do you desire me to hand my father over to execution? Do you desire me to tell you where the secrets you desire to recover are bestowed? Do you desire me to assist you to restore to your country the cruel means with which you hope to crush the heart of humanity some time in the future? Let me hear it all, the whole depth to which you desire to force me to descend. I have always wondered at the possible profundity to which the Prussian mind can descend in its lack of human understanding. Well, Prince, you had better say all you have to say now. For after this I shall claim the privilege of every condemned person to pass out of the world in peace." Then her contemptuous smile deepened. "But perhaps I am to be denied that privilege. Perhaps there is no such privilege in the Prussian code. Perhaps I am to be placed upon the rack, and tortured until I confess. I feel it would only be a fitting outcome of the Kultur to which your countrymen have risen. I am waiting to hear anything further you have to say."

It would have been impossible to tell from the man's attitude the effect of these words. Not a muscle of his features stirred. His regard remained coldly contemplative.

"There is no alternative," he said. "Your crime admits of none. We place no value upon any information you could give us. Our means are perfect for obtaining it ourselves. To prove it I can assure you of things which perhaps you do not know yourself. The plans which your friends stole are even now in the yards at Dorby in Yorkshire. The construction of submersible vessels is going on under Admiralty supervision and protection, a matter carefully arranged by your lover, Ruxton Farlow. Your father is at Dorby, and his private submersible is moored in an inner dock at Farlow, Son and Farlow's yards. These are all facts you may be aware of, but there are others which you certainly are not. One of them is that these constructions are about to be destroyed by explosion, and the plans too. Later on there will be further developments. As for the torture you suggest, that, too, is unnecessary. I have yet to learn of a greater torture which a young, rich, and beautiful woman can endure than the thought of being torn from the arms of the hero whom she has foolishly permitted herself to worship. There can be nothing more painful to her than to contemplate in her last moments the happiness which she is denied being enjoyed by some other woman when her own penalty has been paid. My reasoning is only a man's, but – "

"A devil's!"

Vita's calm had deserted her. Horror and loathing struggled for place in her wide shining eyes.

The man looked on unmoved.

"As you will, Princess," he said, with that curious flicker of the eyelids. "But now, since I have completed the business of my visit, I will relieve you of my obnoxious presence. When the time comes you will be given half an hour to prepare yourself for the execution of your sentence."

He moved away. The shadows of the room swallowed him up. Then, a moment later, Vita heard the door close behind him.

CHAPTER XXI

ENEMY MOVEMENTS

Ruxton's return to town from Dorby was made by special train in the middle of the night. It had been inspired by an irresistible impulse, born of an apprehension which his great love for Vita inspired.

Prince von Hertzwohl had only sheltered one night under the roof of Dorby Towers. Sir Andrew had been urgent that he should remain his guest indefinitely, feeling that the safety of an Englishman's home was the best of all havens for this large, simple-minded Pole. But Vita's father proved something of his daughter's estimate of him. His gratitude and thanks had been sincere and cordial, but he displayed an understanding of the situation which astonished his hosts, and a decision that resisted all appeal.

"Dear friends," he had urged, "it cannot be. It is a joy to me, so great, to feel the warm shelter of your perfect English home. I love the parks, the wide moor, the white cliffs. But I love more than all the generosity and kindliness of your friendship. But you do not yet grasp what all this means. These people will have my life, and your locks and bars will be no obstacle to their Secret Service. They will get me here, as they would get me in their own country. Nor can we say what danger I might not expose you to. No, my course is quite simple. I will show you to-night."

Father and son were reluctantly forced to acquiesce.

That night, after dinner, the shrewdness of Vita's father was displayed. He departed to his bedroom, and, an hour later, he reappeared in the smoking-room.

The metamorphosis was perfect. An unkempt individual, lean, dirty, and slouching, entered the room and made its way to the fire. His beard and moustache were gone, and he was clad in the greasy clothes and discolored overalls of a riverside mechanic. The disguise was so perfect that only with the greatest difficulty both father and son were able to recognize him. Later on he left the house, and set out for the town of Dorby. It was his purpose to lose himself amongst the thousands of workers who peopled the waterside, and so, while keeping in touch with Dorby Towers, completely sink his identity. Nor was it until after profound consideration that Ruxton and his father realized the wonderful but simple astuteness of the man's move.

It was the second night following this event that Ruxton's own resolve was arrived at. It was over forty-eight hours since he had dispatched his telegram to Vita telling her of her father's arrival and safety. He should have received a reply in under six hours. No reply, however, had been forthcoming.