The Men Who Wrought

The hard eyes of the man had grown harder, but his lips smiled, displaying the strong white teeth behind them sharply clenched.

"Yes. To the business. There is much. To-day I have arranged those things which I could arrange. It is fortunate that your father has appointed the one day which we must have chosen ourselves. It must be Sunday night. Sunday night before Von Berger reaches Dorby. Vita, it is a pleasant thought to me that I – I can defeat this man. Ever since he came to England he has treated me like a conscript. I hate him."

Vita watching him realized the truth. It pleased and satisfied her that it was so. To her such animus between these men meant safety.

"Yes? Sunday night?"

Von Salzinger shrugged. He understood her manner.

"Listen," he said sharply. "On Saturday evening at 6:30 you must be ready to get away. At that hour you must be ready, and I will provide you with a long dark cloak for travelling. We shall go by car. We dare not risk any other means. Car the whole way, and the journey must take us precisely the twenty-four hours. Now this is it. When the moment comes I will arrange that your attendants are engaged elsewhere, and that the doors of the corridor are unfastened. You will slip out and pass down the long passage till you come to the main staircase. This you will descend, and reach the hall below. The entrance door will be open. You will pass out and down the drive. Beyond the gates a car will be standing – a cabriolet. The chauffeur will be at the wheel. Without a word you will get in the car. He will at once drive off. I shall join you at Bath, where we shall have a very late meal."

"How will you join me?"

Von Salzinger raised his brows.

"It is simple. I am in command here. My word is absolute. Within ten minutes of your going it will be discovered. I arrange this. I shall be in a fury, I shall terrify those with me. There will be three men. Among them Johann Stryj. I shall curse the women, and then set about running you down. Each man will be despatched in a car to certain places, in directions you have not gone. I shall pursue you alone. So I shall come up with you at Bath. Then you will continue the journey to Dorby with me. I shall time it so we reach the – the cove, eh? at half-past six on Sunday evening. We shall travel all night."

In spite of herself excitement was growing in Vita. The prospect of the race for liberty was alluring and exciting.

"And we go straight for the Old Mill Cove?"

"It is so. This cove. Ha, it is a strange place and – secret. It is your secret and your father's. You will have to guide me." His manner became reflective. "We know so much of the coast, yet we missed this place. It is strange. You know it and your father, but Von Berger – no. So it was that your father escaped. It amuses me now. Still Von Berger does not know. And so we shall escape. Now write your answer to that letter. I will help. We must have no hitch, for unless we get away at that moment – disaster will follow."

Vita had finally thrown off her uncompromising attitude of coldness. She was alive with a thrilling excitement. The man's plans were so simple and adequate. Her only fear was Von Berger's unexpected return. She had moved to a table where writing materials lay and prepared to write her letter.

"Von Berger will not change his plans?" she demanded eagerly.

"He will not change them. He has been summoned to meet – He is on the sea. He has gone to make his report. Now write."

The next few minutes were occupied in the writing of Vita's reply to her father. It was practically dictated by Von Salzinger, as had been her earlier letter. He left her no choice in what she must say, and, at the conclusion of the writing, read it carefully over, and finally folded it and sealed it himself. He looked on silently while she addressed the envelope to Sir Andrew Farlow. Then he took possession of it and placed it in an inner pocket.

With the completion of the letter his manner seemed to undergo a change. The smoothness, even deferential atmosphere of the man merged into one of sharp suspicion. His brows drew together, and a quick sidelong glance flashed in the woman's direction, and a surly note sounded in his next words.

"It is a fool that can trust a woman – a woman in love. How do I know that your father will not betray me to this man, Ruxton Farlow? How do I know that you will fulfil your promise? You, a woman hating me, and in love with Farlow. I am mad, mad to risk it. You hate me – because I would save you and your father. If Farlow knew there would be no mercy for me. For you I am imperilling my life in every direction. Von Berger, and all he stands for, shadows me from behind. Before me is a man robbed of his love."

Vita had risen from the table. She had turned to the fire and stood leaning against the great mantel.

"Your estimate of human character need not alarm you. Remember, wanton treachery is almost as rare as the highest virtues. Men and women do not betray unless they can see some gain ahead. My father needs safety and security, not only for himself but for me. I, too, want these things. Your conditions will be fulfilled to the letter because we need your aid. Will that satisfy you? Is it commercial enough? You have set the price, and I have agreed to it. Nor am I bankrupt. It is an agreement between us, and the fact that it is not set out on paper, and duly signed by witnesses, makes it surely the safer."

The man's hard eyes were fixed steadily upon the beautiful face.

"Your tongue is bitter," he said in a deep guttural tone.

"But no more bitter than my lot. Please go now. Human endurance has its limits. If you force me to mine I shall fling all to the four winds of heaven, and accept the fate marked out for me by the merciless tyrants who prevail at Berlin."

CHAPTER XXVI

RUXTON WINS A TRICK

It was the close of a long and busy day for both of them, and father and son, in the interim preceding dinner, under a bright moon, paced together the broad stone paths of the formal terrace gardens of Dorby Towers. For Ruxton the confined spaces of the house were suffocating. His nerves were on edge. His father, with the calm philosophy of his years, merely sought the fresh air which the work in his office denied him, even though it possessed the damp chill of an English autumn night.

"Anybody else besides Caistor coming for the week-end?" Sir Andrew's sidelong glance was penetrating.

"Lordburgh and Reginald Steele. There will be others – whom they may choose to bring."

His father's scrutiny was lost upon Ruxton, who seemed to have little inclination to talk. His interest in the week-end gathering seemed of the slightest.

"Well, Caistor and Steele will find plenty to interest them," Sir Andrew went on. "Lordburgh will probably content himself with the golf links."

"Lordburgh will spend his time at the yards," Ruxton said. Then he displayed an increased interest. "He's a Foreign Secretary who sees further than mere international policies. He's a man who believes that an adequate foreign policy can only be built on the foundations of a sound internal economic basis. Caistor and Steele are armament men of diverging opinions. Caistor pins his faith to weight of metal in surface craft, while Steele places the submarine before the heaviest guns. Both have sound enough reasoning, but, as I said, they are armament men. They cannot conceive that a non-military defence can ever offer sound possibilities. Both have been shaken up by the mercantile submersible project. But I think Lordburgh is the more impressed by it."

"I should have preferred their coming next week," Sir Andrew went on, a little wearily. "We should be under full work then. We are nearly clear now, and the naval mechanics are replacing the civil men next week. It's been hard work for us all. I shall be glad when everything has settled down again."

Ruxton glanced round at the speaker. There was a flash of anxiety in his eyes. It was the first time he had ever heard his father complain of the arduous nature of his work. A wave of contrition swept over him.

"I feel I've left too much on your shoulders, Dad," he exclaimed. "I'm afraid I've been very selfish. I've burdened you with the responsibility of this thing, and given you no support. Somehow, I never thought – and you have never complained."

"Tut, tut, boy," his father retorted, in his gruff, hearty way. "I have yet to learn that I am too old for my work. It's work I've been born and bred to. Without it I should be a decaying man. Don't think of it. Your work is far more responsible, far more harassing. You are among those active thinkers whose life's work is the welfare of our country. Leave me to Dorby. Mark out the work you demand from me, and rest assured it will be thoroughly carried out. I haven't the imaginative brain that sees into the future and formulates plans whereby that future may be safeguarded. But I can build any fleet you can plan – single-handed."

There was pride and admiration in the smile with which Ruxton listened to his father's words. But the man was serious. He knew his limitations, and he also knew his capacity. Besides, he had no intention of admitting the strain of the work in hand.

Ruxton shook his head.

"I'm not even doing that, Dad," he protested. "My time's given up to other affairs. I've simply abandoned everything for one selfish purpose."

Again came his father's sidelong glance.

"Selfish?"

"Yes; Vita. I must find her. I must help her. I must unravel the mystery of it all, or – what is the use of all that I had hoped to achieve? Dad, I no longer blind myself. I have only just awakened to life. All the hopes and longings of the past belong to a time when I still remained slumbering to the real meaning of life. Now, compared with the meaning of life which I have just awakened to, they are mere cold, meaningless products of the brain. They are nothing, simply nothing to this new vista which has just opened out to me. I doubt if you'll understand, if any one can understand but myself."

"No?" There was that twinkling smile in the old man's eyes.

"No. There is only one thought in me now. I must save Vita; I must save Vita from our enemies. Perhaps, even, I must save her from herself. How can I expect any one to understand all it means to me, how absurd seem all those other things which I had counted as vital?"

"And yet I loved your mother."

Ruxton walked on a few steps without reply. A flush had mounted to his handsome cheeks. Then he abruptly paused, and in the depths of his eyes was a shamefaced smile.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he cried. "Forgive the egoism of a man – in love."

His father's smiling eyes were full of a deep sympathy.

"No, no, boy; no apologies. You are no different from the rest of us. We all feel the same at some time in our lives, and we all believe no one else has ever felt as we do. Work out your plans, boy. Forget Dorby; forget everything else for the time. Give your whole heart and time to straightening out the tangle your love affairs seem to be in. And when you have succeeded, bring her to me. For the rest, I am your deputy in the work which must still go on; and, believe me, I shall not fail you. There goes the gong."

The deep note of the gong seemed to rise out of its metal bowels; it crescendoed, and finally died away. The two men passed silently into the house and removed their light overcoats. Ruxton's emotion was too deep for words. His father's sympathy and loyalty were almost overpowering to a nature as sensitive as his. He wanted to tell him all he felt. He wanted to pour out his gratitude. He wanted to show him something of the great love he had always borne him. But it was impossible. He did none of these things because they were men – men of a temperament and schooling that made such a display impossible. So, in silence, they prepared to make their way to the dining-room.

But affairs were busier than either of them knew. In a very few minutes every other emotion became lost in the surge of events.

Just as they were about to leave the hall a man-servant appeared from the direction of the servants' quarters. He was about to pass up-stairs, bearing a tray. The quick eyes of Sir Andrew observed the pile of letters he was carrying up to the library. Without regard for the moment he stayed him.

"Is that the post just in?" he demanded.

The man promptly returned.

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, let me see."

The letters were divided into two small piles: those that were addressed to Sir Andrew, and those for his son. Sir Andrew picked his up. He glanced at the superscription on each envelope, and dealt them back on the tray as though he were dealing playing-cards. At the last one he paused. It was the largest envelope.

"That will do," he said, and glanced across at Ruxton as the man passed on up the staircase.

He tore the envelope open and stood with the contents of it poised in his hand.

"Ruxton."

The younger man turned from the fireplace. His eyes were expectant. His father's tone had been sharp.

"Yes."

"You'd better deal with this." He handed him the lesser envelope, which had been enclosed in the other.

Ruxton took it and glanced at it. His father's eyes were watching him closely; they were twinkling.

"It is tempting, eh?"

Ruxton shook his head.

"But Vita trusts us," he said simply.

Once again Ruxton found himself looking into the wide eyes and remarkable face of Prince von Hertzwohl. With the simple courtesy which was so much a part of him, the latter had thrust his guest into the only chair his uninviting quarters afforded. For himself, he was more than content with the doubtful flock bed, with its frowsy patchwork quilt. The chair creaked under Ruxton's weight, but he said no word. He was waiting, waiting while the other read the letter he had just put into his hands.

Ruxton was disguised in a suit of clothes that left nothing to be desired. Mrs. Clark, the landlady, could have possessed no doubts as to his calling. She knew the type of mechanic too well. Von Hertzwohl was still arrayed in his work-soiled suit, which his intellectual features denied as the yellow lamp-rays fell upon them. Ruxton's outward seeming was calm, but inwardly his active thoughts were teeming. The opportunity which otherwise must have been made had been afforded him without his personal effort. He knew that the crisis in all his plans had arrived. It was for him to turn the course of affairs in his own favor, or accept almost certain defeat. So he waited, coördinating every mental force he could make available.

It was a serious, almost pathetic pair of eyes which were at last raised from the letter, which was in Vita's handwriting. There was something almost like dismay in their wide depths as they encountered the steady gaze of Ruxton's. It was a moment of grave embarrassment – but only for Von Hertzwohl. He felt like a man hunted before the gaze of the younger man's dark eyes.

But Ruxton had no desire to discompose him. His mind was clear, his course marked out. He saw with perfect understanding the only road by which he could achieve his end. The night when, in the midst of all his doubts and difficulties, he had suddenly caught a glimpse of daylight, he had realized that Vita's father sat under pledge to his daughter. The nature of that pledge was difficult to appraise definitely, but it was obviously directed towards secrecy to which he must not be admitted. His hope lay in admitting its inviolability.

"I want you to listen to me, Prince, for some moments," he began at once. "I have one or two things to put before you, simply and straightforwardly. In doing so I want you to realize my motive. I have told you, her father, of my love for Vita. That love burns as deeply in my soul for her now as it has done ever since I first met her. I want you to know that I am fighting for that love now, that I shall continue to fight for it so long as I have the power. Nothing will deter me; nothing our enemies can do, nothing Vita can say, short of a direct dismissal. This is my motive, simple and honest. I have not come here to ask you the contents of your letter from her. I do not want to know them. I have not come here to press you in any direction which your honor, your loyalty to your daughter denies. I have come here to tell you the things I know, and the things I believe, without exaggeration, and to obtain your consent to a small favor, which, in common fairness, you cannot deny me."

The embarrassment in the deep, shining eyes beneath the shaggy grey brows was growing. To Ruxton they were almost a child's eyes, so simple and earnest, and so full of unconcealed trouble.

"It is an ominous prelude," the Pole replied, with a poor attempt at a smile.

"But not so ominous as the dénouement which, I fear, is likely to come when you attempt to leave these shores."

Ruxton's retort came with a quiet emphasis and directness which completely took the other aback.

"I do not see – Is that a threat, Mr. Farlow?" All the childlike trouble had vanished from the man's luminous eyes. They were shining with a definite challenge which revealed the ready spirit of the man, which Vita always told of.

Ruxton smiled.

"Not from me, sir."

"Then from whom?" The words were incisive.

"From your – our enemies across the water."

All the fire had departed out of Von Hertzwohl's eyes; only was there interest in them.

"Tell me," he said simply.

Ruxton drew a deep breath.

"There is so little – and yet, to me, so much to tell. I cannot force my line of argument upon you, because it is less argument than conviction. I can only tell you those things which I know, and assure you of my conviction."

The Prince inclined his head in a non-committal manner.

"This is the second letter you have had from Vita, in her handwriting, and addressed from her home. These letters have come through my father, just as you have received them. I am prepared to believe Vita has written them, but she has not written them from Redwithy. That I can swear to. Vita has not been near Redwithy since the day of your arrival here."

"And that is – true?"

There was a slight change in the Prince's manner, but it was an undefinable change.

"I will stake my honor upon it. Now," Ruxton went on after a fractional pause, "let us leave that. It could be explained – if for some inscrutable reason she wished to avoid me. Let me point something else. When I came up here to meet you on your arrival I left Vita, who had promised ardently to be my wife, waiting, in a fever of apprehension, for a message from me of your safe arrival. That message was promptly sent, and it reached Redwithy. But before it arrived Vita had left her home with her maid, Francella, in a strange motorcar, for a destination unnamed. And yet in a perfect fever of anxiety she had been awaiting that message. One moment," as the old man, with eyes wide with astonishment, was about to break in. "When I arrived at Redwithy that message was lying amongst a pile of correspondence, all of which had been secretly opened and re-sealed. Would Vita have arranged for that even if she wished to avoid me? Would she not simply have written me a note of dismissal? It is the commonest of common sense." He paused, with brows raised questioningly. "Now come these letters to you, sir," he went on a moment later. "I do not know their contents; I do not wish to know them. But they prove she is aware of your safe arrival. And I judge they are urging you to leave the country, since you expressed no idea of doing so till you received the first letter. Now, sir, one last word and I have told you all I know and all I believe. Either those letters are forgeries or they are written by Vita under pressure. Vita is aware you are here at Dorby. Therefore she has been told, for I do not believe she has seen my message. She has communicated with you by the only means either she or any one else could think of – through my father. She does not know where you are, so she cannot be forced to betray you. But she can be forced to decoy you, or you can be decoyed in her name. Prince, a trick is being played – a clever trick; and my conviction of it is all the greater, since I would stake my life on Vita's loyalty to you – and to me."

The Prince remained silent for some moments. Ruxton had risen from his protesting chair and moved across the room. He refrained from even glancing in the old man's direction. He wanted him to have time. He wanted to exercise no moral influence by appearing to await urgently his reply.

He had outlined the plain facts without studied effect. The whole purpose of his visit was still to be achieved.

He turned at last and came back to his chair as the other cleared his throat.

"There is sense – common sense in what you say." The big eyes of the man were clear and luminous, but they were not looking at his visitor. They were gazing at the oil-lamp on the table. "But you have not read Vita's letters, or you would see that much of your statement becomes impossible. I have not the right to show you those letters, therefore you must accept, or not, what I say. I assure you if there is a trick, or plot, it is so deeply laid that Vita cannot see it; and, in view of her letters, neither can I. Had I not received her letters I could have accepted your beliefs, but those letters put the idea beyond possibility. Mr. Farlow, I am sorry. I could think of no greater delight, or honor, than having you for my son. If what Vita has done, if her course has been arranged with a view to breaking with you, then I can only say I regret more deeply than you can ever dream. All you have done, and are doing, and have dared in my interests have endeared you to an old man's heart just as surely as though you were my son. It is only very, very rarely that men meet men. In you and your father I have been doubly fortunate. Will you believe me when I say it? But for the rest it is not for me to decide. Your love for my daughter I realize is deep and sincere. It is for you two to settle it. But that she is in the hands of our enemies I truly and sensibly cannot believe. I assure you there is no hint of it in her letters. One final word. You fear that I am running headlong into a trap. Do not fear for me. I have none. My submersible will convey me to safety as it has done before."

The old man's words, so kindly spoken, so full of regard, and loyalty and courage, came without any shock or disappointment to the other. Not a muscle of his strong face moved. Nor was there a shadow of change from the determination in his dark eyes. When he began to speak, however, a dawn of a smile grew in them. It was a smile of confidence. The attitude of the other had made his purpose a shade easier.

"Then, in face of my beliefs, you will go, Prince?" he asked.

The direct challenge seemed to slightly disconcert the other. Von Hertzwohl had spoken the truth when he said that his regard for Ruxton had become as that of a parent. He felt that his reply must hurt him.

"It must be," he said. Then he endeavored to soften his decision. "It is best so. Best for our work; for you; for – Vita. Ach! I would like to tell you all I have in here" – he tapped his broad brow with a forefinger. "But I cannot. I may not. Dorby has been a haven to me, and I longed to be near and witness the growth of that work which is to make impossible the vile cruelty of men, all the horrors of an indefensible slaughter. I told myself I would sit here and see my dream slowly, step by step, fulfilled. I said that you and your father were the laboring genius setting up the defence which was to serve humanity in the days to come. And in the pride and joy of my heart I told myself that mine was the brain that had conceived this merciful weapon, which I should watch grow to its final triumph. But now I know that it is not so. I may not witness the triumph of my labor here, where it is to be achieved. My presence adds jeopardy to it. It adds jeopardy to you all. It must not be. I have made my mind up. I must go."

Ruxton inclined his head as though in a measure of agreement.

"If it can be done in safety perhaps it is as well," he said.

"Safety?" The wide eyes shining beneath the shaggy white brows were smiling and full of a boyish delight at the thought of adventure. "Show me. How can it be otherwise? Have we not held the secret of our landing? Who is to know the secrets of our cove? The tides – is there a Teuton spy who would face the entrance of that cove and believe that it is free to us to enter or leave it at will? No one would believe it could serve a landing."