Chapter IX: On Dangerous Ground

On Darville’s return he found Paton sitting in the taxi, apparently asleep. Nothing had happened, so the detective, directed by Darville, went off to get something to eat.

The afternoon crept slowly by. The sun had disappeared, and the mists were fast appearing in the silent, deserted street. Presently Paton returned, and they all resumed their patient vigil, Darville ever and anon tinkering and hammering at the engine.

“We’ll never get the thing to work again,” he remarked to the young driver. “We’ll have to be towed home eventually.”

But, just as dusk was falling--and fortunately before the street lamps were lit, for the car was standing beneath one, and the illumination would have been very unwelcome--the door of No. 286 opened again, and down the steps came Joan and her husband. She wore a well-cut beaver coat with a little black cloche hat, and carried in her hand a small leather attaché-case.

In an instant Darville turned and hid his face, so that he should not be recognized, and as they passed, McLay remarked loudly to him that they had better telephone for another taxi to tow them home. The moment the pair had turned the corner, Paton became interested in their movements, and strolled in the direction they had taken.

Meanwhile, in Darville’s quick brain there arose a thought. Was the house occupied? If not, it would be as well to enter and search it. So he sent McLay along to knock at the door and beg for some water to refill his radiator. He rang several times, but there was no reply. A servant had left by the downstairs door at about three o’clock, therefore it was apparent that nobody was at home.

Darville felt in his pocket and found the little portable tool-case which he usually carried. That decided him. He drew from the case a thin piece of steel about an inch broad and five inches long, which he fixed into a handle. Then, instructing McLay to remain on watch, he slipped down the steps into the basement, and went to the kitchen window, finding it securely latched. For a few moments he examined it, then, drawing the useful little tool from his pocket, he inserted the blade between the sashes, and, after some difficulty, he pushed back the latch, allowing the window to open.

In a moment he was inside, and, finding the stairs, ascended to the first floor. In the dining-room were the remains of the tea which the Caborns had taken, but the drawing-room was closed, and by the dust everywhere it showed that it was not used. Indeed, about the place was a close, musty odor, as of a house that had been closed for a long time, and as he investigated room after room, neglect and decay seemed apparent on every hand. Two bedrooms only were in a habitable condition, no attempt having been made to clean the others. In the center of the bed in the back room of the first floor lay four new rubber hot-water bottles filled to their utmost capacity.

Darville gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise when his eyes fell upon them.

He took one in his hand and found it quite heavy, crossed with it to the fading light, where he regarded it with considerable curiosity, turning it over and over and weighing it in his hand.

“H’m!” he muttered to himself. “More interesting than I expected.”

Then, replacing the hot-water bottle, he made a tour of the room, opening the drawers in the dressing table and then the wardrobe, where, concealed in the bottom drawer of the latter, he found four little tin boxes something like those containing one hundred cigarettes, and painted gray. At the ends of each box were brass electrical terminals for the attachment of wires. The boxes were securely soldered up, therefore he was unable to decide what could be within.

One of them he took to the window, and, after making a thorough examination, he stood for a few moments hesitating and perplexed.

By the discoveries he had made he fully realized the seriousness of the situation, and that it was as well that he had followed the mysterious pair to Corfu and away again. They had taken every precaution to cover their tracks, but he had successfully traced them to their hiding place.

Downstairs on the mantelshelf of the dining-room he had noticed a tube of liquid glue, and this decided him how to act. He rushed down and obtained it. Then, removing the brass screw cap of one of the electrical terminals, he cut a tiny disc of paper to fit the under-part of the cap and gummed it to the brass. Each of the eight terminals he treated in a similar manner, and when the caps were replaced in position the paper discs were hidden.

Then he carefully put everything back as he had found it and descended to the hall. Hardly had he reached the bottom stair when he heard the rattle of a latch-key in the front door; therefore he fled down to the basement, escaped through the open window, and, closing it after him, swiftly reached the street.

He found Paton and McLay chatting.

“They’ve been round to see those friends to whom Caborn paid a visit this morning,” Paton said. “There’s something tricky going on, I’m certain.”

“Yes,” replied Darville. “I’ve been in the house, and I’ve made some very interesting discoveries. Let’s get back to the hotel. I must get on the telephone.”

“The car’s all right, sir. I can drive you,” said McLay. “I’ve been able to fix her up again,” he added with a laugh.

So the two men got in, and McLay drove back into Edinburgh, depositing them before the North British Hotel, where he duly received a handsome reward.

Just before eight on the following morning, Seton Darville entered his secret headquarters, that big suite of businesslike offices which were believed to belong to the Spanish mining corporation. He went in by the back entrance, and opened the door of his private room with his key.

Upon his table lay several letters which his secretary had not dealt with, for they were in distinctive envelopes, showing that their contents were for the director’s eye only.

On ringing his bell there appeared a tall, thin, middle-aged man, a Foreign Office official named Gordon Howard, who had been lent to Darville, and who was head of the night staff.

A visit from the chief at that hour was not unusual, for Darville, when in England, had a habit of turning up at all sorts of hours, when he would refresh himself on the old brown sherry and dry biscuits he kept in his cupboard and work for hours, going over and digesting the piles of reports which arrived in such an ever-flowing stream by all sorts of channels.

“Morning!” Darville exclaimed tersely. He was unshaven after his rapid journey to Scotland and back, and had had no breakfast. “Is Austin back from Madrid?”

“Yes, sir. He arrived this morning by the Sud Express. He’s left his report and gone home.”

“I want him here at eleven. He’s had two nights in the train. He won’t want sleep,” Darville said. “I want Cator and Bellamy here also, and--and Craig of the S.B. Call them all very secretly, and also get me Paris on the telephone,” Darville said in that quick, impetuous way of his.

“Very well, sir,” replied the chief of the night staff. “But there is a lady who is anxious to get in touch with you.”

“Who is it?”

“Your servant rang up at eleven, sir, last night, and said that when he got into touch with you I was to tell you that a Miss Temperley wished to speak to you very urgently.”

“Oh!” snapped Darville, his brows contracting. “Thanks. But I’m very busy”; and then, with a sigh, he added under his breath: “These damned women never leave me alone--never!”

“Is Ayrton home?” asked Darville sharply, for at the office his manner was quick and brusque.

“No. He’s still in Athens. We had a report from him yesterday.”

Darville grunted.

“Time he came back. Recall him. I have something for him to do,” he said, and in the next breath he said: “The King’s Messenger from Cairo is bringing us more dispatches. Has he arrived?”

“He was here late last night. The Marseilles-Paris train had a breakdown, he says.”

“Then bring me the reports here. I want to see them if they are decoded.”

“They are just finished,” Howard replied. “I’ll go and get them.”

A few moments later the night secretary placed before Darville a rather voluminous document of some dozen pages of close typewriting, which Darville commenced to study, while Howard went to the telephone to execute his instructions.

Ten minutes later, while he was absorbed in the further intricacies of a very serious German intrigue in Cairo, the night secretary put his head into his room and interrupted him by saying:

“You are on to Paris, sir.”

Darville took up the instrument and listened. There was a low, continuous hum, like the droning of a bumble-bee. It was intentional, in order that no eavesdropper could listen to secret conversations.

Suddenly he heard a familiar voice ask:

“Are you there, Darville?”

“Yes, my dear Armand, I’m here,” was the quick reply. “I’m back from Corfu, you see. Very busy. I want you over here very urgently. It’s now half-past eight. Can you leave Paris at ten, and be at Victoria at 5.15?”

“Is it so urgent?”

“Yes, my dear Armand,” he said, addressing his chief assistant, who lived permanently in a pretty flat at Auteuil. “I want you to take charge of a very delicate inquiry.”

“All right! I’ll be at the office just before six. _Au revoir_,” was the cheery response, and Darville hung up the receiver and resumed reading the secret report of German trickery in Egypt, which would in due course be placed before the Cabinet.

A little later Howard announced that Teddy Austin and both Cator and Bellamy--all of them the most trusted secret agents who happened to be at home at the moment--and also Superintendent Craig, of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard, would be there for the consultation at eleven o’clock.

“Good!” remarked Darville, his strong face fixed upon the document before him.

“Is there anything else?” asked Howard. “I’m going off duty.”

“No. Good-morning,” said Darville, without looking up.

A few moments later his secretary Bennett, the dapper ex-naval officer, entered and greeted him.

“They have told me of the conference at eleven, sir,” he said. “Something astir, I suppose?”

“Yes--and serious this time,” said his chief. “Mr. Godal is coming over from Paris to-day to take charge of it. I want a rest, and I may be going away again.”

It was nothing new. Seton Darville was usually away, but daily, wherever he might be, he kept his fingers upon the pulse of that clearing-house of the secrets of the Powers.

He rose, and, declaring that he would return at eleven, went out and took a taxi round to his rooms in Duke Street, where his quiet, gray-faced man-servant, Drew, greeted him.

“You haven’t breakfasted, I suppose, sir?” was the man’s first question, to which he replied in the negative, and Drew busied himself at once to get him some.

“Oh, sir, there’s been a lady named Temperley ringing you up. She rang twice yesterday, and she rang again an hour ago. She’s at the Berkeley Hotel, sir.”

“All right, Drew,” his master almost snapped, and then, throwing off his coat, he went to the telephone.

“Hulloa, my dear Miss Temperley!” he exclaimed merrily, when he heard the voice of the gay winter-sports girl who had so greatly attracted him the previous winter. “So you are in town, eh? I’m only just back from abroad--the Adriatic this time. I’ve been awfully busy. Do pardon me not writing to you.”

“Oh, yes!” laughed the girl. “I know how busy you always are. But I wondered if you’ve had my letters.”

“Yes, I had them all right.”

“Mother came to town earlier than she expected, so I thought I’d let you know,” she replied in a rather wistful voice. “Are you coming to see me?” she asked.

“Certainly. I want to see you, of course. But to-day it’s quite impossible. I’ve been on a flying visit to Edinburgh--got back at half-past seven this morning--and I’m leaving London again for Scotland this evening.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” said the girl, in a tone of deep disappointment. “I want to see you about going to Wengen. Mother is only here for three days, and then we go back home again.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed regretfully. “Then I’m not sure if we can meet. My movements for the next few days will be very uncertain.”

“Oh, do see me, Mr. Darville,” she implored. “Will you run down to us at home? Both father and mother want you to come to us again. It is so many months since you did so. Do spare a day or two! Come and see how my great Dane has grown. Now do come, won’t you? Just come when you like, but as soon as you can. I’m so sorry we can’t meet here in London.”

“So am I, Edris,” replied the novelist. “But, as a matter of fact, I’m very worried, and I shall be busy for the next few days.”

“But are you going to Switzerland?”

Seton Darville hesitated. Varied reflections shot through his mind. “I don’t know,” was his reply. “I can’t promise yet. We will talk it all over when I come down.”

“Oh, you must come,” she cried. “I can’t hear any excuses. The Palace won’t be the same without you. The Armstrongs, the Yates, the Sheldons, and all our usual crowd, are counting upon you. Besides, the dances won’t be the same if you are not there to superintend.”

“So you really want me to go, eh?” he asked tantalizingly.

“Of course I do.”

“And are you going to tear yourself away from Lionel for a whole month?” he asked seriously.

“Of course I am.”

“Won’t he be very sad?” he asked with a laugh.

“There are some things I can’t well discuss over the ’phone, and that is one of them,” she replied reprovingly. “It is about Lionel that I want to consult you. That is mainly why I am so eager to see you. Can’t you possibly see me this afternoon--even for ten minutes? I’ll come anywhere to meet you,” she urged, in frantic eagerness.

Darville reflected for a few moments. He knew that his engagements at the office would keep him till afternoon.

“Well, what about five o’clock?” he asked.

“Yes, where?”

“Here--come to tea at my rooms. We can talk alone here.”