The Men Who Wrought

There was a great striving for reassurance in her manner. Ruxton watched it, as he watched every other play of light and shade in her voice and expression. Nor was it until he witnessed the return of her brilliant smile that he felt content. With its advent he returned again to the serene enjoyment of the moment.

At length, no further excuse for remaining would serve, and at half-past nine they rose to go. For Ruxton it was the passing of an important milestone on his journey through life. There remained no longer any doubt of his feelings. He knew he had met at last the only woman in the world who could reveal to him the true depths of happiness in life. His full realization had come with her frank avowal of the place Von Salzinger had striven to hold in her life. It had been a threatening cloud, a summer billow of cloud tossed up by some adverse air-current, and, for the moment, it had obscured his sun. Its passing had left him in the full blaze of a radiance which he now appreciated at its true worth. He knew that he loved this wonderful Princess Vita.

Once again the hand of Destiny had been revealed. He was moving blindly at its bidding. Nor had he will or inclination to diverge from the course marked out. He was content – more than content, and his only alloy was the rapidly approaching termination of the all too short evening.

His car rolled up to the door. He had handed Vita into it, and stood leaning in through the doorway.

"Where shall he drive to?" he enquired, with a smile of amusement. "Kensington?"

"Please, Kensington."

There was almost a challenge in the smile with which Vita replied to him.

A moment later he was sitting beside her in the cabriolet as they drove on towards the crossing of Piccadilly Circus.

"It is too late to let you take me all the way to my home," Vita said quietly. "Besides, I would rather remain in town for the night." Then she broke off in an undecided fashion.

Ruxton caught at the pause.

"Do not think about it. I have no desire to know anything but that which you choose to tell me."

Vita laughed. And Ruxton felt that her laugh was slightly embarrassed.

"It seems strange not to tell you where my real home is," she said. "There is no adequate reason for not doing so – and yet – I will tell you the reason that I occupy my Kensington flat in my two Christian names, and keep my real home away in the country. Father and I thought it out when we embarked upon our plans. We decided that in emergency it would be necessary to have a secure retreat. We endeavored to forestall all possibilities. We – "

She broke off, gazing across the car at the open window of the door beside Ruxton. Her eyes were full of alarm. The car had stopped in a stream of traffic, held up by the imperious arm of the point policeman. A taxicab had come to a stop beside them, and slightly in advance. A hatless head had been thrust out of the window to observe the cause of the delay. It was a square head upon still squarer shoulders. The neck that linked them was fleshy and powerful. The hair was short and stubbly.

Vita's hand reached swiftly and caught Ruxton's arm.

"Quick," she whispered. "Quick – but cautiously. Don't let him see you. There, leaning out of that cab. It is Von Salzinger."

Ruxton, his pulses quickened at the touch of Vita's hand upon his arm and the eager alarm of her whisper, leant forward and cautiously peered out of the window. Instantly the inevitable happened. The car moved forward and closed up on the cab. They had drawn abreast. The movement distracted the occupant of the cab. His head turned and Ruxton found himself gazing squarely into the fleshy features of the Commandant of Borga. He promptly drew back, but it was too late. Von Salzinger had no scruples. He had obviously recognized the Englishman, for now he leant farther out of the window and deliberately peered into the well-lit interior of the car for a second look at its occupants.

It was a desperate, trying movement. Ruxton was helpless. There was nothing to be done. The man's scrutiny of both himself and his companion remained until the traffic moved on. Then, and then only, did he withdraw his head.

"He has lost no time, and has had all the – luck," said Vita in a hard, bitter tone.

But Ruxton smiled and spoke down into the tube to the chauffeur.

"There is a taxi beside us. Avoid it." Then he put up the tube and turned to the girl at his side. "Your fears were well grounded. With Von Salzinger in London there can be only one possible interpretation of the fact. But I don't think he has had all the luck. You forget that I have completed my arrangements with the Admiralty."

CHAPTER XIV
"KAMERADS"

Two men walked briskly up Baker Street in the direction of the Underground Station. At least, one of them walked briskly. The gait of the other were better described as hurried. He was obviously making an effort to keep up with his powerful, square-cut, vigorous companion. Many eyes were turned upon them as they passed by. It was the provocative air of the larger man, whose gait was more than arrogant.

The lesser of the two was not oblivious to the attention.

"It is almost in the nature of a shock to find myself walking beside you in London, Ludwig. It is the old days again. But in the old days you were thankful to disguise the fact that you possessed military training. Now it is as if you were on parade. These people hate and distrust anything which suggests the – military."

Ludwig von Salzinger laughed gutturally. His fierce eyes glanced swiftly about him, ready to challenge any resentful glance in his direction.

"I care nothing for the pigs," he observed pleasantly.

"No. But you are here for – distraction. I have work which demands that I attract as little attention as possible."

"Distraction?" Von Salzinger laughed without any mirth. Then he became suddenly serious. "Distraction – yes, that is it."

The smaller man was quick of eye – almost furtive. His slight figure was well clad in an ordinary blue serge suit. His boots had once been of patent leather. His hat was of the Homburg pattern so beloved of the Londoner. He wore his brown hair fairly long to disguise the flat back of his head. His face was perfectly clean shaven, which left it typical of the ordinary man on the street. The other was so obviously of the Teuton military caste in spite of his elegant civilian dress, that his companion was seriously troubled. He protested again.

"If you cannot disguise yourself let us take a cab. Can you not drop your shoulders like the London 'knut'? Can you not slouch? Can you not refrain from lifting your feet as though you would crush a worm, or – an Englishman? Your moustache is bad enough."

"Ach! you are afraid, like some sick woman. What is it?" cried Salzinger half angrily, half contemptuously. "Has the work broken your spirit? It was not so in the old days. Johann Stryj, you need a holiday – distraction, like I am seeking." He laughed at his own clumsy humor.

Stryj took no umbrage. He never took umbrage till he had discovered all the possibilities of a man. Von Salzinger had arrived just as he had finished his English breakfast in his essentially English flat in Baker Street. Johann Stryj had spared no pains to mould his whole life and person upon London lines. Von Salzinger had explained nothing as yet of the meaning of his sudden descent upon London. He had merely demanded that his erstwhile comrade now accompany him to his hotel.

"And what – distraction do you seek?"

The man's quick eyes were sharply questioning in spite of the smile accompanying his words.

"That is what I conduct you to my hotel to tell you of."

Johann Stryj appeared to acquiesce, and they progressed in silence for a few paces. Then the quick eyes were again raised in the direction of Von Salzinger's square face.

"You have left us all very far behind in the service of the Fatherland. We hear it all – here. And four years ago you were with us, waiting upon every message that came, wondering where the next few hours would find us."

Stryj's words were calculated to set the other talking. They succeeded. Von Salzinger was obviously pleased.

"You, my Johann, were built for the – service. I was not. I have not that faculty for making my feelings subservient to the needs of the moment. I was glad when the call of the war took me out of it, and – gave me my chance."

Stryj nodded in an expressionless fashion.

"Yes. I am at home in the work. I love it." Then he laughed silently. "I am the servant of every pompous official who visits London. I am the slave of my orders. I am a cypher on the official lists, I am nothing amongst the people of the nation which I serve. Yet I am the head of the underground system which works here in England, and, incidentally, my income is four times that of a Captain-General. Your honor is very great, Ludwig, but I wonder if you have advanced since – those days."

Von Salzinger made no reply. He was thinking of the recent scene in which he had participated in the castle of Kuhlhafen. His face expressed something of his feelings of chagrin, and his companion was not slow to detect them.

"This is a thought of yours too, perhaps," he went on at once. "The moment a man enters the higher ranks of our army his troubles begin. He must fight for favor, and win it or decay in some obscure ditch in the military office. Nor can he rely for five minutes upon that favor. Degradation awaits at the first blunder which it is not humanly possible to avoid. Is it not so?"

All the buoyancy of Von Salzinger seemed to have vanished from his hard eyes. His old friend was telling him all that he had only too much reason to be aware of. He had fought his way up that perilous ladder of Prussian militarism, and like so many others he had tripped and fallen, and now was faced with the task of making good the temporary set-back. He had struggled hard at the first trip, and he told himself that fortune had favored him, and he had kept his hold, but well he knew that unless he recovered his foothold himself he must fall to the bottom and die in obscurity.

He turned on the Secret Service man.

"It is all as you say. But the very uncertainty of it makes it all the more worth winning. That is why I am in London now. When I have finished in London I shall have achieved the lasting honor, so rare in our Fatherland."

Stryj shook his head.

"There is none – no lasting honor in our Fatherland," he said.

Then with a quick turn he pointed at the window of a fashionable photographic studio. There was a life-size portrait standing in the very centre of it. It was a full-length portrait of a man of over six feet. He was in the uniform of a British field-marshal.

"There is lasting honor in this country," he said, as they paused and stood gazing at the wonderful face in the portrait, with its level, stern brows, its convincing, powerful eyes, and the heavy moustache that in no way detracted from the purposeful set of the jaws. "They are loyal to those they honor here. The man who has fought a great war for them, as that man has done, need do no more. His name and fame will go down to history with the vast material honor they have showered upon him. That is a name that will never die – in England."

But Von Salzinger had no comment to offer. They stood gazing for some moments at the stern-faced presentation of the marshal. Then quite suddenly an iron grip took hold of the spy's muscular upper arm.

Von Salzinger was pointing at a lesser portrait. It was one among several comprising the faces of well-known parliamentarians.

"That man! Quick!" There was excitement in his voice, and a mild pink had leapt up into his sallow cheeks.

Stryj was startled, but displayed no emotion.

"The name is underneath," he said, pointing. "He is a new member of the Cabinet. Ruxton Farlow."

"Donner! I've found him. Quick! We take a taxi." Then Von Salzinger laughed, all his earlier buoyancy returned. "You are right, my Johann. I am too military to walk in London. But the walk has done me good – much good."

A moment later they were in a taxi speeding on their way towards Von Salzinger's hotel.

"What is the – distraction?" enquired Stryj, as the cab swung sharply out of Baker Street. His calmness of manner was in marked contrast to that of his companion, who was still breathing heavily under his emotion. He understood now that a matter, an important mission, was on hand, and every faculty was alert to miss nothing of any detail of it, even the mood of his old friend.

"Distraction?" Von Salzinger laughed. "Yes, it is distraction. But distraction can mean another emotion than pleasure. Hey?"

"Yes." Stryj nodded.

Then Von Salzinger leant over and whispered elaborately into the other's ear, as the cabby changed his gears with a clatter and the cab began the ascent of the approach to the hotel.

"That man Farlow, as you call him, stole into Borga when I was in command. I am not in command of Borga – now."

Johann Stryj faced his companion with eyes that never seemed to express more than a mild interest. Von Salzinger was lounging in a large armchair smoking a long cigar. They were in the latter's private sitting-room in the hotel. In spite of his leisured attitude, deep emotion lit the eyes of the late Commandant of Borga, and an undercurrent of excitement kept his cigar glowing in a reckless manner. Stryj smoked a Turkish cigarette with a composure that was in sharp contrast with his companion's attitude.

"So you see it was not only friendship that fetched me to your apartment this morning, my good Johann," Von Salzinger finished up, at the conclusion of his story of the visit of Ruxton Farlow to the secret heart of the great Borga arsenal. "I am here for distraction. Hey? Distraction, and the unravelling of the plot against the most treasured secret of the Fatherland. I am here for more. I am here to break it up, and, incidentally, if possible, to break up those concerned in it."

The man illustrated his purpose viciously, with two clenched fists breaking an imaginary object.

Stryj inhaled deeply of his cigarette.

"And if you fail?"

He was reading deeply into the less astute mind of the other. He had grasped fully his position. He knew, although he asked, what awaited failure for his old comrade, Von Salzinger.

"There will be no failure, I promise you. I have unlimited powers, and I shall use them. Oh, yes, I shall use them."

"What powers?"

The keen eyes of the spy were watchful.

Von Salzinger produced a document from his breast pocket. He opened it. He glanced over it, and passed it across to the other.

"My credentials," he said, with triumph in his accompanying glance.

Johann Stryj took the document and perused it carefully. He closely examined the signatures. When he looked up it was obvious that he was almost startled.

"It has never been done before," he said, almost incredulously. "By this the entire Secret Service is placed at your disposal – absolutely."

Von Salzinger nodded.

"Now do you understand? Now?" he cried violently. "We believe this Englishman has burrowed out the most stupendous secret of our Government. We believe he has tricked us through this traitor, Hertzwohl. Gott! He has caused me to be – degraded."

Stryj passed the violence of his companion by. His mind was searching, searching where the less acute soldier could not follow.

"And what of this Hertzwohl? Has he been shot?"

"Not yet. We have to prove this thing – first. That is our work."

"Ah."

Stryj had learned all he wanted to know.

At that moment a waiter entered the room bearing a copy of Who's Who for the current year. Von Salzinger seized upon it, and, by the time the man had withdrawn and shut the door, he had found the page he sought.

"Ach!" cried Von Salzinger. "Here he is. The luck has served me well. It is as though the plums were ripe, and ready to drop into my mouth."

Stryj rose and crossed over to his side. He looked down where the stubby finger of the soldier pointed.

"Farlow, Ruxton. Only son of Sir Andrew Farlow, Bart. Member of Parliament for – . Under Secretary for Foreign Office in 19 – . Yes. Partner in firm of Farlow, Son and Farlow, ship-builders and ship-owners. Dorby. Ha! Dorby, Yorkshire. Residence, Dorby Towers, Yorkshire. So." Salzinger looked up as he concluded reading out disjointed fragments of the information he sought. "They are ripe – ripe, these plums," he cried exultingly. "Johann, my friend," he went on, glancing up into the spy's clever face, "it is good to see the plums hanging – ripe. We have got to hear all they talk of and contemplate, we have to watch and discover all that is known by Farlow, Son and Farlow. That is your work. You, and those under your control. You will leave for Dorby at once. While I – "

"Watch that the birds do not eat the ripe plums you would pick. Dorby. I saw the name in the papers yesterday. Those are the yards some portion of which have been taken over by the British Admiralty. These papers tell me something worth while sometimes."

"The British Navy?" The fierce eyes of the soldier were startled. He ran his fingers through his stubbly hair. "Curse the British Navy."

"Yes."

The mild rejoinder seemed to irritate Von Salzinger.

"Talk! Talk! Ach! Those are your orders, Johann. See to them, and communicate with me here. I must write."

He moved over to a desk while Stryj deliberately adjusted his hat and lit another cigarette. Then he moved towards the door.

"Is there anything else?" he enquired, with his hand upon the handle.

Von Salzinger glanced round.

"Yes, use every means at your command to get the information we need. Remember, Stryj, if the secrets of Borga have been discovered, if our country has been betrayed, then a harvest of vengeance is going to be reaped."

He turned back to his desk and began a long communication addressed to Prince von Berger, while Johann Stryj passed silently out of the room.

CHAPTER XV
THE INERADICABLE STRAIN

Von Salzinger was gross. He looked it. But he had not yet arrived at those years when the outward form loses its atmosphere of virile strength submerged beneath overwhelming adipose and a general bodily inertia. That would come as inevitably as reaction invariably follows upon the heels of excess when vitality passes its maximum. Von Salzinger was of original type, and beneath the shallow veneer of the civilizing process, in him was to be found of a certainty the hairy hands of the savage. It is the brand which can never be eradicated from the original Teuton, and particularly from those who are native of Prussia. The anxious insistence of the claims to Kultur, emanating more particularly from Prussian sources, can be taken as something in the nature of an unconscious admission of the depths from which they have only been partially lifted.

Von Salzinger was pronouncedly of this type. He possessed all the physical and mental force which belongs to it; just as he possessed the full appetite for excess which is its invariable accompaniment. In him was developed to an unusual degree the desire for all the bodily enjoyment that life can offer to a creature in whose veins flows the full tide of the animal.

Once having completed his arrangements with his erstwhile comrade Johann Stryj, he returned to the carefully considered course which he had marked out. With all the Prussian's scheming mind, from the moment he had been made aware of the drift of his fortunes he had cast about for the best outlets which might promise amelioration for the position which chance had placed him in. Nor had he been slow to discover what he sought. Possibilities had promptly opened up before the mental force which he applied to the problem before him.

He withdrew a letter-case from his breast pocket the moment he had finished his communication to Von Berger. He leant back from his desk, and, one by one, turned over the papers the case contained. Finally he selected a letter written on thin paper, in a close, spidery hand. He read this letter through twice. His face was smiling as he read, but his eyes remained unchanging.

Finally he laid the letter down and copied into a notebook two addresses which had been carefully detailed in it. He read them over and verified them. One was in Kensington, and the other was described as being near a well-known market town in the county of Buckinghamshire. With this matter accomplished he glanced at the clock. Should he wait for lunch in the hotel, or should he run into the West End and regale himself at one of the fashionable restaurants? Finally the attractions of the latter triumphed in their appeal to his gastronomic senses and he telephoned down to the hall porter for a cab.

Von Salzinger had lunched well. He sat back in the taxi-cab in the attitude of a man enjoying the satisfaction of a more than well-lined stomach. Even, for the moment, as he leisurely smoked a great Corona cigar, and reflected on the quart bottle of Pol Roger '06 he had consumed, he felt that the position was not without its compensations, and, after all, in certain departments, the French and the long-legged English were not wholly to be despised.

Such was his satisfaction that his eyes were half closed by the time the cab jerked to a standstill outside a modest block of flats in Kensington. But he was alert in a second, for that was the man. His purpose at all times dominated, and only in the moments of leisure did he permit himself the indulgence he craved.

He negotiated with the cabman for a possible continuance of the journey, and passed into the building, his alertness and activity in no way impaired by the amplitude of his luncheon.

Five minutes later he returned with a cloud of annoyance depressing his heavy brows. He strutted up to the driver and gave his orders.

"We'll go on to Wednesford," he said, in his heavy guttural English. "You must have petrol, for I return to-night by eight o'clock. What is it, the distance? Twenty-five miles? So. It is easy to do."

The Londoner acquiesced without enthusiasm, and Von Salzinger reëntered the cab, and slammed the door closed behind him. That was his mood. He had been prepared to make the journey, but he was irritated that he had to do so.

In twenty minutes the cab had threaded its way on to the Oxford Road, and, regardless of all speed limit, raced on towards the famous Chiltern Hills.

Already the early autumn leaves were beginning to fall under the freshening breeze. The hedges were beginning to lose their trim appearance, and the dust-laden leaves on the midsummer growths wore a mildewed aspect that somehow matched the lank, weedy grass of the road banks. The roads were dry, and the fields looked dry. There was a weary look about the countryside as though Nature had completed her summer's work, and was eagerly looking forward to her winter rest.

A solitary horsewoman was leisurely riding down one of the tarred roads approaching Wednesford. Her horse was steaming, and her obvious intent was to cool him down before reaching her destination. Presently she turned off upon a narrow country lane, whose surface was no advertisement for the zeal of the local urban council. It was rough, and deep in dust, with overgrown hedges crowding in upon its narrow limits in a manner which forced her to keep an accurate middle course.

But Princess Vita was not only cooling down her horse after a joyous gallop upon an adjacent gorse-laden common. She was thinking deeply, dreaming as only a woman of romantic ideals can dream. Nor were her thoughts with the rural picture through which she was now moving, and which her ardent heart loved. She was gazing back over past moments so recently spent in the heart of the great capital. Just now her whole mind was filled with thoughts of the man. And so she had no room for any other consideration.

For the moment the affairs which had brought this man and herself together were powerless to disturb her dreaming. The sweet, fragrant air of the autumn countryside was filling her lungs, a sense of well-being pervaded her body in the exercise in which she delighted, and so the youthful heart of her had turned aside from the cares which lurked in the background, and sought only the image of the man who was already beginning to occupy so great a part of her life.

The Princess Vita was a well-known figure in the neighborhood. She was known as Madame Vladimir, who occupied Redwithy Farm, standing in a sleepy hollow nearly two miles outside Wednesford. She had occupied the farmhouse for several years, and gossip, supported by the reports of the local police during the late war, declared that she was a refugee from Russian Poland, and consequently one of our Allies, and so those who lived sufficiently near by had set themselves to be kind to her, and, incidentally, to satisfy as much of their curiosity as possible.

But the Princess was not easily available to the curious. She was gentle, she was sufficiently ordinary in her methods of life to please the most exacting of her country neighbors. Furthermore, while professing some Polish religion which the country folk had no understanding of, in the absence of a church of her own she had readily adopted the Church of England. This was enormously in her favor, and she quickly became an admittedly proper person.

But even the most well-meaning never succeeded in penetrating beneath the surface of acquaintanceship. She was credited with being extremely well off. Redwithy Farm was a miniature, restored Elizabethan mansion of rare antiquity, set in the heart of a parkland of over eighty acres. During the war she had only kept English servants, some seven or eight, but from the moment peace had been declared these had been replaced one by one with foreigners, retainers from her own home in Poland. No one seriously questioned the change. One and all admitted that the conditions of Poland after the war made it a charity on the part of Madame Vladimir to rescue these poor people from such a condition of devastation and afford them the blessings and peace of the English countryside.

So, through her own consummate tact, Vita was enabled to live more or less unquestioned in her English home. And such peace was justly her due, for her objects were simple and honest for the country of her adoption. She was preparing, as many another foreigner had done before her, a refuge in the hospitable heart of Britain for that father for whom she foresaw the growing threat of danger.

Half-way down the winding, narrow lane she turned out through an opening which had once been a five-barred gate. She crossed a field and passed into another, and then another. Then, making her way through a small iron gateway, she entered the twenty-acre patch of larch and birch woods which stood on a hill on her own land dominating the farm.

Following the narrow cart track through these woods, her fine eyes busy in every direction with the scuttling rabbits, she emerged in full view of the quaint old L-shaped house. It was a perfect picture of rural England. There was not another house in sight. Redwithy Farm seemed to be shut off from the rest of the world by the hilly surroundings of the Chilterns. The land rose up on every side but one, and that was the direction in which the ribbon-like drive wound its way eastwards between the railed-in pastures of rich grassland. The building was two-storied for the most part, but here and there dormer attic windows peeped out under the eaves of the beautifully cut thatched roof. Then, behind the house itself lay the old farm buildings, all in excellent repair, and in another direction were the heavy ancient red walls surrounding the various fruit gardens and glass ranges.

Vita loved the place, and never more appreciated it than when gazing at it from this view-point. Just now there was the added charm of the ripening autumn tints lending warmth to the scene and adding to it that snug suggestion of shelter from the coming inclemencies of winter.

But in the midst of her happy contemplation she became startled. The wonderful peace of it all was abruptly broken. Round the corner of the straight-limbed woods, to the east, a motor vehicle made its appearance. It came on swiftly down the drive. At first Vita took it to be the car of some caller from the neighborhood, but, in a moment, the familiar outline of a taxi-cab impressed itself upon her.

This realization was the startling part of the apparition, and, without hesitation, she pressed her horse on towards the house.

Vita's hasty return to the house was inspired by an intangible dread. There was no such thing as a taxi-cab in Wednesford. Therefore her visitor must have come from farther afield. There was only one place in her mind associated with taxi-cabs – London. If the cab came from London, then —

Her undefined fears received ample confirmation on reaching the house. Herr von Salzinger was awaiting her in the drawing-room. And at once she realized, without having admitted it to herself, that this was the very thing she had dreaded. How could she have admitted it? It had seemed impossible. Her retreat was known to no one but her father. How then had this man discovered it – and so promptly?

The riddle of it left her troubled. She must somehow gain time to think. Finally, she gave word to the sallow dark-eyed man-servant that she would join Herr von Salzinger in the drawing-room in a few minutes. Then she passed up-stairs to change her habit.

Half an hour later she entered the drawing-room, a picture of such beauty as set the strong pulses of the Prussian hammering, and made him, for the moment, at least, remember only one side of the decision which had brought him to Redwithy Farm.

Vita's ready wit had been active. She had decided on her course of action, and greeted him now with an assumption of warmth which flattered him, and helped to disarm.

"Ludwig von Salzinger!" she cried, her hand outheld in cordial welcome. "You, in London, after all this time? How have you managed to tear yourself from the paths of honor, which, if all accounts be true, you have so familiarly been treading of late? Do you know, when I saw your familiar features last night in that cab I really couldn't believe it was you. And how – how in the name of all that's wonderful did you manage to find me out here?"