Chapter IX: The Flight to London

WHITTINGHAME sprang to his feet, the muscles of his face working with excitement.

"That's serious--decidedly serious," he exclaimed. "We can't afford to underrate that fellow. Look here, Dacres, there's a job for you the first thing to-morrow. Your formal introduction to the 'Meteor' can wait."

"Very good; what is it?"

"You told me you knew Commander Hythe; go up to town to-morrow morning and warn him. Don't give him the name of your informant, merely say that Reno Durango is in England, and was seen in a Portsmouth train. That will be enough--he knows the character of the rogue. If we can nab the fellow on English soil that will save a lot of complications, for otherwise it won't end only in a rupture between Great Britain and Valderia. Valderia is only a pawn in the game as far as Durango is concerned. If he succeeds in obtaining the secret specifications and getting back to Zandovar he will, of course, apply his knowledge to the improvement of the Valderian submarines."

Whittinghame paused to wipe his face. The perspiration was slowly trickling down his forehead. He was labouring under intense mental strain. Dacres made no remark. He allowed his companion to take his time. Presently Whittinghame resumed.

"No, Valderia hardly counts in Durango's estimation. He is playing for higher stakes. Once he has succeeded in working the specifications what is there to prevent him from negotiating with some of the Great Powers? Should the secret pass into the hands of our avowed rivals, in a very short space of time they would possess a fleet of submarines of the 'Aphrodite' type, and our present unquestionable superiority would become a thing of the past."

"I see the drift of your argument," said Dacres. "In a way, Durango indirectly gains you the sympathy of the government, and your plans to rescue your brother will be facilitated."

"You've hit the right nail on the head, Dacres," observed Whittinghame. "Now let's see about turning in. It is half-past one."

Dacres was shown into a small but well-furnished bedroom. He noticed, with considerable surprise, that his small handbag for immediate use was placed on a chair by, the side of his bed.

"Hang it!" he exclaimed, as soon as he was left alone. "I clean forgot all about that bag. I must have dropped it when Callaghan and Co. tracked me in the wood. Well, I'm in luck--by Jove, I am! Here I am signed on for service in the mysterious airship--and already entrusted with an important mission. By the by, I wonder what that fellow Callaghan meant by saying, 'He's one of them!' I'll ask Whittinghame in the morning."

Even the momentous events of the day did not keep Dacres from sleeping. In less than ten minutes he was lost to the world in a sound, dreamless slumber.

At seven o'clock Dacres was awakened by a knock on the door, and in reply to his "All right" the man Williamson, who had acted as butler on the preceding evening, entered.

"Your bath is ready, sir," he announced, "and Mr. Whittinghame presents his compliments and would you care to make use of this suit of clothes until you can get your luggage?"

Half an hour later Dacres, rigged out in a suit of his host's--which fitted him fairly well considering the slight difference in height--entered the diningroom, where breakfast was already served.

"Hope it's not too early for you," remarked Whittinghame after the customary morning greetings, "but the matter is urgent. One of my monoplanes will be ready for you at half-past eight. With luck you ought to be at the Admiralty soon after ten--that, I believe, is the usual hour at which the officials arrive preparatory to duty. All being well you should be back by noon. If, for any unforeseen cause, you are detained you might communicate with me."

"How?" asked Dacres; "by telegraph?"

Whittinghame shook his head.

"Too risky, in spite of the vaunted 'official reticence' of the Postmaster-General. No, there is another way--by wireless."

"By wireless?" echoed Dacres.

"Why not? The monoplane is fitted with an installation of the latest type, and Callaghan, who is to pilot you, is a skilled operator. You give him any message and he will transmit it in code."

"There was one thing I meant to ask you," said Dacres, in the course of the meal. "Have any persons attempted to trespass upon your property?"

"Yes, several," was the reply. "At first I had a lot of trouble with poachers, until I effectually scared them off. After that I had to deal with one or two members of Durango's gang."

"Then, Durango knows of the existence of the 'Meteor' and of her place of concealment?"

"Oh, no. He knows through his spies that I have taken a house in the New Forest, but I do not for one moment think he suspects that the 'Meteor' is hidden here. To conceal an airship of over a thousand feet in length in a comparatively small plantation seems illogical. That is the beauty of the whole scheme. He knows right enough who the owner of the 'Meteor' is--he has good reasons for so doing--but it is to his own interests to keep that a secret."

"Why do his agents prowl about here?"

"Under his orders. I don't believe that they even know who or what he is, but money will work wonders. If these fellows had the opportunity I don't suppose they would hesitate to kidnap or even murder me; but I don't give them the chance. You may recollect that when you made your way through the fence a bell rang?"

"Now you mention it, I do."

"That is for the purpose of raising an alarm. Also two of the wires of that fence are electrically charged. By a thousand to one chances you missed them. Had you touched them you would have been held powerless till my men released you. Again, had you made a dash for liberty last night, you would have found the drive barred by a gate. Naturally you would either open it, or vault over the top. In either case you would have been stopped by the live wire and become as helpless as a fly stuck to a fly paper."

"Then, perhaps it's as well I didn't attempt it," remarked Dacres with a smile. "I'm jolly glad I didn't for other reasons. But what happens when tradesmen and _bona fide_ visitors call?"

"They are few and far between," replied Whittinghame. "We make due allowance for them. Fifty yards beyond the electrically-charged gate is another gate. The lodge-keeper has to open that, and if he is certain that the callers are above suspicion, he switches off the current and telephones up to the house."

"Then, where is the generating station?"

"Underground. In fact, all the gas-producing plant and workshops are underground. I'll show them to you when you return. By a rare slice of luck the house is built on the site of an old royal hunting-lodge, and the extensive cellars still remain, although long forgotten until we discovered them by pure accident. Otherwise, had the workshops to be above ground, the risk of detection would be infinitely great. But it's close on the half-hour. Are you ready for your journey?"

On a lawn in front of the house was a two-seated monoplane, one of the standard "Velox" design that had recently become popular in Great Britain. Aviation as a means of making a journey had become quite common, and an aeroplane in flight attracted no more attention than a taxi in the Strand.

Callaghan, a burly, good-natured Irishman, was already in the pilot's seat. On his left was the wireless installation which, since the monoplane was automatically steered when once in the air, could be worked without detriment to Callaghan's other duties. The passenger's seat, in the rear and slightly higher than the pilot's, was protected from the wind and rain by an enclosed structure resembling the body of the now defunct hansom-cab. To view the country beneath him the passenger could make use of the two sponson-like windows on either side, through which the traveller, leaning sideways, could see immediately below.

There was no necessity for half a dozen men to hang on to the monoplane's tail. As soon as Dacres had taken his seat, Callaghan thrust forward a short lever and the propeller began to revolve. The passenger was made aware that the flight had begun by reason of his head coming into contact with the padded back of the cab, and by a sinking sensation in the region of his waist like the experience when being suddenly jerked up in a lift.

Beyond that there was nothing to give an impression of flight. The glass protected him from the wind and silenced the buzz of the powerful rotary motor, and it was not until Dacres looked over the side and saw the moorland and forest slipping away beneath him that he realized that he was being borne through the air at one hundred and twenty miles an hour.

Even at that terrific speed the light westerly wind caused an appreciable drift. In eight minutes the monoplane was over and slightly to the west of Southampton. Here Callaghan altered the course to counteract the cross air-current, and three minutes later Winchester, nestling between the downs, glided underneath like a panoramic effect. Then Alton and Aldershot were left behind in quick succession, and forty minutes after leaving the ground Dacres discerned the Thames looking like a silvery thread amidst the meadows and woods of Middlesex and Surrey.

With the rapid progress and popularity of aviation many of the restrictions that had been placed upon the pioneers of this branch of aeronautics had been abolished. It was no longer forbidden to fly over towns, and the metropolis was no exception. In fact, a portion of Hyde Park had, with part of other open spaces, been allotted to the use of airmen.

It was to the Hyde Park alighting station that Callaghan steered. Had he been a stranger to London he could easily have found his way by reason of hundreds of aeroplanes making for or returning from the most central aviation ground in the metropolis.

Speed was reduced to a safe forty miles an hour, which, after the rapid rush, seemed to Dacres more like a painful crawl in a motor-bus through Cheapside.

Almost immediately beneath them was Hyde Park. The monoplane was circling now in company with ten more, spread out at regular intervals like a flock of wood-pigeons in flight.

Presently Callaghan's practised eye caught sight of the signal he was waiting for: a huge red and white disk rotated till its face was visible from above. It was to signify that the ground was clear to receive the next batch of waiting 'planes. Fascinated, Dacres watched the sward apparently rising to meet him. The volplane was so steep that it seemed that nothing could prevent the monoplane from being dashed to bits upon the earth. So acute was the angle that he had to plant his feet firmly against the front of the cab to prevent himself from slipping from his seat.

Suddenly the whole fabric tilted upwards, then with a barely perceptible jar and a strange sensation in the back of his neck, Dacres found himself on terra firma in the heart of the metropolis.

"We would have done it in forty-eight minutes, sir, if it hadn't been for that block," remarked Callaghan apologetically, as he opened the door. "You'll find me over by that pylon, sir. We are not allowed to wait here."

"Very good," replied Dacres, and feeling rather stiff in his lower limbs, hurried to the exit, called a taxi, and was soon bowling along towards Whitehall.

"I wish to see Commander Hythe," he announced to the petty-officer messenger on duty at the Admiralty.

The man consulted a register.

"I'm sorry, sir," he replied, "but Commander Hythe is not in the building. Mr. Wells is doing duty for him. Would you wish to see Mr. Wells sir?"

"I don't know the man," thought Dacres, "and I don't suppose he'll know me. In any case, he can tell me where Hythe is with more certainty than the messenger. Very well," he said. "I'll see Mr. Wells."

Much to his disgust Dacres had to cool his heels in a waiting-room for full twenty minutes until the official was at liberty to receive him.

Commander Hythe was on duty at Portsmouth, Dacres was informed. It was quite uncertain when he would return: it might be a matter of a few hours or it might be a couple of days.

"We've got to run down to Portsmouth, Callaghan," announced Dacres as he rejoined the monoplane. "Send a message to Mr. Whittinghame and explain that Commander Hythe is away on duty and that I am going to get in touch with him."

"Very good, sir. I'll send off a wireless when we are clear of this place. I'll land you on the Officers' Recreation Ground."

"That will do nicely," agreed Dacres as he took his seat.

Thirty-nine minutes after leaving Hyde Park the monoplane shaved past the tower of Portsmouth Town Hall and alighted at the spot the Irishman had suggested.

From a police inspector at the Dockyard gate Dacres elicited the information that Commander Hythe was engaged with the Commander-in-Chief, and that it was very doubtful whether he could be seen.

"But I must see him," declared Dacres peremptorily, "the Commander-in-Chief notwithstanding. This is official and not private business. Would you mind letting me have paper and envelope? I'll write a note and one of your men can take it to Commander Hythe."

Five minutes later a telephone message was received at the gate to the effect that Commander Hythe would receive Mr. Dacres at once.

"Hulloa, old man!" exclaimed the youthful commander as Dacres was shown into the office.

"You've come at a very busy time. I can give you five minutes only. What can I do for you?"

Hythe's usually cheerful face looked drawn and haggard. It seemed as if he had aged ten years since yesterday, when Dacres met him in Northumberland Avenue.

"I've been sent to warn you that the plans of the 'M' class of submarines are in danger."

"To warn me," echoed Hythe grimly. "My dear fellow, you're too late. The plans and specifications were stolen from the manager's confidential record room between six last evening and this morning. That's why I'm here."