Part 3

"Hittite! Well, you see, it was gone; no good pulling a long face over it, though it was a blow after three years' work. I groused all day Sunday, but recognised it as a case of spilt milk, and this morning started on a new tack. I'm on the scent of something else. Whether it will be any good or not I can't say yet."

"Surely you got detectives down?"

"Well, no, I didn't. It's much the best to keep such things quiet. The fellows had got away with the stuff, and before the police could have done anything they'd be out of reach. So I just buckled to."

"Very philosophic of you!" said Burton drily. "I needn't have put myself about, then. Well, hand over fifty francs, and I'll cry quits."

"Fifty--francs, did you say? Won't shillings do?"

"No; I was fined in francs. I won't take advantage of you."

"I seem to be rather at sea," said Micklewright. "Have the French started air laws, and you broken 'em and been nabbed? But what were you doing in France?"

"Come and let's have some dinner," said Burton, putting his arm through his friend's. "I'm sure you don't eat enough. Any one will tell you that want of proper grub makes you dotty."

Micklewright locked up the laboratory, and went on with Burton to the house. Burton found his suit-case in the spare room and was glad to make a rapid toilet and change of clothes. In twenty minutes he was at one end of the dining-table, facing Micklewright at the other, and old Mrs. Jones was carrying in the soup. Burton waited, before beginning his story, until Micklewright had disposed of an excellent steak, and "looked more human," as he said; then--

"Since I saw you last, I've been to Ostend," he began.

"Jolly good oysters there," said Micklewright.

"Ah! You're sane at last! I didn't go for oysters, though; I went for--Hittite."

"You don't mean to say----" cried Micklewright.

"Don't be alarmed," Burton interrupted. "There's none there now. Just listen without putting your spoke in, will you!"

He related the incidents of his flights to Folkestone and Dover, his pursuit of the steamer, and the trick by which he had been taken on board.

"And then I made an ass of myself," he continued. "But it's owing--partly at any rate--to your lucid description, Pickles. Tall, stout, bald, moustache, brown bag; all the details to a T. I got into conversation with the man, and when it turned out that he was a motor-cyclist, knew the Dover Road, and had something in his bag that was going to make a noise in the world, I made sure I'd got the right man.

"You can imagine how sold I felt when, after persuading the Customs fellows to insist on opening his bag, all they fished out was a suit of pyjamas, an old toothbrush, and a bottle full of a custardy-looking stuff. He was very good-tempered about it--much more than I should have been if my wardrobe had been exposed. I was feeling pretty cheap when another fellow came along, whom your description fitted equally well, though he wasn't a scrap like the first man. He had evidently been horribly sea-sick; had gone below, I suppose, which was the reason why I hadn't seen him before. The wind had carried away his hat, and his bald pate betrayed him. I got his bag opened; had to pretend that it was mine, and full of cigarettes; and your stuff being loose in the bag it went up with a fine fizz when I dropped a match into it. That's why you owe me fifty francs. They lugged me off to the police station, and next day fined me fifty for smoking on forbidden ground, though, as I pointed out, _I_ hadn't done any smoking, and they ought really to have fined the fellow who had the stuff in his bag. They were very curious as to what that was, but of course I didn't give it away. And it's rather rotten to find that after all you don't care a copper cent!"

"Not at all, my dear chap; I'm extremely grateful to you. I only hope you won't ruin me."

"Ruin you! What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, with Hittite safe, I shall be so sickening rich that I am almost bound to get lazy."

"If that's your trouble, just hand it over to me; _I_ don't mind being rich, though I'm not an inventor. But I say, Pickles, that reminds me: do you know any inventors of the names of Sims, Edwards and--what was the other?--Rowland?"

"Can't say I do. Why?"

"Why, the wrong man--the bottle man, you know--gassed about the greatness of our English inventors, and mentioned these three specially, to put me off the scent, I thought. Of course his talk of inventors made me all the more sure that he had your stuff in his bag."

"Well, I can't recall any of them. Sims--you've never heard me talk of any one named Sims, have you, Martha?" he asked of the housekeeper, who entered at this moment with the coffee.

"No, sir; though if you don't mind me saying so, I've been a good mind to name him myself this long time, only I didn't like to be so bold."

"My dear good woman, what are you driving at?" asked Micklewright in astonishment.

"Why, sir, I dare say busy gentlemen like yourself don't notice it till some one tells 'em, their combs and brushes being kept tidy unbeknownst; but the truth is, I've been worriting myself over that--I reelly don't like to mention it, but there, being old enough to be your mother--I mean, sir, that little bald spot jest at the crown of the head, sir--jest at the end of the parting, like."

Micklewright laughed as he put his hand on the spot.

"Well, but--Sims?" he said.

"Well, sir, it didn't ought to be there in a gentleman of your age, and thinks I to myself: 'Now, if only the master would try one of them hair-restorers he might have his locks back as luxurious as ever they was.' And I cut the particklers out of that _Strand_ magazine you gave me, sir, and how to choose between 'em I _don't_ know, they're all that good. There's Edwards' Harlene for the Hair, and Rowland's antimacassar oil, and Tatcho, made by that gentleman as writes so beautiful in the Sunday papers; he's the gentleman you mean, I expect--George R. Sims."

The men shouted with laughter, and Mrs. Jones withdrew, happy that her timid suggestion had given no offence.

"To think of you in pursuit of a hairdresser gives me great joy," said Micklewright presently. "He _must_ have been a hairdresser, Teddy."

"I suppose he was," assented Burton rather glumly. "By the way"--he felt in his pockets. "He gave me a handbill; I didn't look at it at the moment; it's in the pocket of my overall, of course. I'll fetch it."

He returned, smoothing the crumpled slip of paper, and smiling broadly.

"Here you are," he said. "'Arsene Lebrun, artist in hair, having returned from London with a marvellous new specific for promoting a luxuriant vegetation'--I am translating, Pickles--'on the most barren soil, respectfully invites all gentlemen, especially those with infantine heads'--that's very nice!--'to assist at a public demonstration on Sunday, August 20. Arsene Lebrun will then massage with his fructifying preparation the six most vacant heads in Ostend, and lay the seeds of a magnificent harvest, which he will subsequently have the honour to reap.' Hittite isn't in it with that, old man."

At this moment there was a double knock at the door, and Mrs. Jones soon re-entered with a letter.

"From the Admiralty," said Micklewright, tearing open the envelope. "Listen to this, Teddy."

"'I am directed by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to say that they are prepared to pay you L20,000 for the formula of your new explosive, and a royalty, the amount of which will be subsequently arranged, on every ton manufactured. They lay down as a peremptory condition that the formula be kept absolutely secret, and that the explosive be supplied exclusively to the British navy. I shall be glad if you will intimate your general agreement with these terms.'"

"Congratulations, old boy!" cried Burton heartily, grasping his friend's hand. "It's magnificent!"

"I really think you are right, and as it's very clear that but for you I shouldn't have been able to accept any terms whatever, it's only fair to----"

"Nonsense!" Burton interrupted. "All I want is fifty francs, for illicit smoking--a cheap smoke, as it turns out."

"Can't do it, my boy. Wait till I get my Lords Commissioners' cheque."

A week or two later, Burton's firm received an order from Dr. Micklewright for a water-plane of the best type, with all the latest improvements in canoe floats, and the finest motor on the market. When the machine was ready for delivery, Micklewright paid a visit to the factory.

"It's a regular stunner, old man," said Burton, as he explained its points to his friend.

"Well, Teddy, do me the favour to accept it as a birthday present--a little memento of your trip to Ostend."

The DEATH'S HEAD HUSSAR

I

"My compliments, Burton! You brought her down magnificently," said Captain Rolfe. "Not much damage done, I hope?"

The airman stooping over the engine grunted. In a moment or two a grimy face was upturned, the tall figure straightened itself, and a crisp voice said ruefully--

"Magneto smashed to smithereens!"

He passed round to the side of the machine, and retailed at short intervals the items of a catalogue of damage.

"A stay cut! ... Two holes in the upper plane! ... Four in the lower! ... Chips and dents galore! Still, we can fall back on the old wife's consolation: it might have been worse."

"All the same, it's precious awkward," said Captain Rolfe, putting his finger through a hole in the lower plane. "The Bosches will be here in ten minutes."

"Not under twenty. They've some difficult country to cross. But, of course, there's no time to lose. It's lucky there's a village close by."

Edward Burton, airman, with Captain Rolfe, who accompanied him as observer, had just made an enforced volplane and landed safely after running the gauntlet of German rifles and machine guns. At the moment when he was flattering himself on being out of range, a shell burst close beside the machine, bespattering it with bullets and putting the engine out of action.

Rolfe had seen cavalry galloping in their direction. The sudden descent would apprise the enemy of what had happened. Whether in ten minutes or in twenty, there was no doubt that the arrival of the Germans would place the airmen in a tight corner.

The first thought of the trooper is for his horse. The airman is concerned for the state of his aeroplane. It was not till long afterwards that Rolfe and Burton discovered that they, too, had not come off unscathed. Luckily it was only Rolfe's sword-hilt that had been shattered, not his groin; while Burton examined with a wondering curiosity two neat black holes in the loose sleeve of his overalls.

It did not occur to either of them that there was at least plenty of time to slip away and hide before the Germans came up. Their instinct was to save the aeroplane--a hopeless proposition, one would have thought.

Along the road from the village, a quarter of a mile away, half the population was already speeding to the scene. The half, alas! was now the whole. There were women old and young, boys and girls, old men and men long past their prime; but there was no male person from seventeen to fifty except the village idiot, who flung his arms about as he ran, making inarticulate noises.

"Hang it all!" Burton ejaculated. "A crowd like this will dish any chance we might have had."

The crowd suddenly parted; the men doffed their hats, the women bobbed, as they made way for a horseman. It was an old straight figure, with short snow-white hair and a long grizzled moustache. He cantered through the throng, turned into the field on which the aeroplane lay, and reined up before the Englishmen.

"You have had an accident, messieurs?" he said, raising his hat.

"Worse than that, monsieur," replied Rolfe, in fluent French. "The Germans have hit us; the machine is useless; they are on our track."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Frenchman. Then, turning to the crowd who had flocked up behind him and stood gaping around, he spoke in quick, staccato phrases, in a tone of command. "Back to your houses, my good women. Take the children. These gentlemen are of our brave ally. You men, drag the aeroplane to the inn. Bid Froment lift the trap-door of his cellar ready to let the machine down. Some of you smooth away the tracks behind it. Quick! You, Guignet, post yourself on the mound yonder and watch for the Germans. The inn cellar is large, messieurs; there will be plenty of room. As to yourselves----"

The wrinkles of his aged face deepened.

"Ah, I have it!" he exclaimed. Turning to Rolfe, he went on: "You are an English officer, monsieur; that says itself. You have observations to report. Take my horse; it is not mine, but borrowed from one of my tenants; my own are with the army. There is no other in the village. It will serve you."

"Thank you, monsieur," said Rolfe, as the old man dismounted. "In the interests of our forces----"

"Hasten, monsieur," the old man interrupted. "Guignet waves his arms. He has seen the Germans. As for you, monsieur----"

"I will go to the inn," said Burton.

"My chateau is at your service, monsieur, but I fear it will prove an unsafe refuge. A haystack, or a barn----"

"I must stay by the aeroplane, monsieur; get it repaired if possible."

The old man shrugged. Guignet came up.

"The Bosches have taken the wrong road, monsieur le marquis," he said. "They are riding, ma foi! how quickly, towards old Lumineau's farm."

"That gives you more time," said the old gentleman to Burton. "Pray use it to save yourself. They will not be long discovering their mistake. Adieu! I salute in you your brave nation."

Bowing, he hurried away across the fields towards a large chateau that reared itself among noble trees half a mile distant. Burton followed the crowd towards the village inn.

"A fine old fellow!" he thought, "but he doesn't know the Germans if he supposes that the wine-cellar will be a safe place. I must find somewhere better than that."

He overtook the men before they reached the village. Passing the ancient church, an idea occurred to him.

"Is there a crypt?" he asked.

"Parfaitement, monsieur," a man replied.

"Halt a minute."

He hastened to the priest's house adjoining, at the door of which stood the cure in his biretta and long soutane. A minute's conversation settled the matter.

"It is a good cause, monsieur," said the cure. "Direct our friends."

Superintended by Burton, the men wheeled the machine through the great door into the church. While Burton rapidly unscrewed the planes, willing hands opened up the floor, and in a quarter of an hour the aeroplane was lowered into the crypt.

"Is there an engineer in the village?" Burton asked.

"Mais non, monsieur, but there is Boitelet, the smith--a clever fellow, monsieur. You should have seen him set monsieur le capitaine's automobile to rights. Boitelet is your man."

Burton hurried to the smithy. Boitelet, a shaggy giant of fifty years or so, accompanied him back to the church.

"Ah ca!" he exclaimed on examining the engine. "I can repair it, yes; but I must go for material to the town, ten miles away. It will be a full day's work, and what is monsieur to do, with the Bosches at hand?"

Burton thought quickly.

"Make me your assistant," he said after a minute or two. "I'll strip off my overalls and clothes; lend me things--a shirt and apron. A little more grease and dirt will disguise me."

"But monsieur is young," said the smith. "All our young men are at the war. The Bosches will make you prisoner--shoot you, perhaps."

"An awkward situation, truly," said Burton, rubbing a greasy hand over his face. Suddenly he remembered the half-witted stripling among the crowd. Could he feign idiocy as an explanation of his presence in the village? He could mop and mow, but nothing could banish the gleam of intelligence from his eyes. And his tongue!--he spoke French fairly well, but his accent would inevitably betray him to any German who chanced to be a linguist.

"There is only one thing," he cried. "I must pretend to be deaf and dumb. Tell everybody, will you?"

"It is clever, monsieur, that idea of yours," said the smith, laughing. "Yes; you are Jules le sourd-muet, burning to fight, but rejected because you could never hear the word of command. But you must be careful, monsieur; a single slip, and--voila!"

He shrugged his shoulder expressively.

"The Bosches! The Bosches!" screamed a group of frightened children, rushing up the street.

The people fled into their houses and shut the doors. Only the cure and the smith were visible, the latter standing at his door leaning on his hammer, with an angry frown upon his swarthy face. Within the smithy Burton was making a rapid change of dress. He rolled up his own clothes and equipment and threw them into a corner behind a heap of old iron, and donned the dirty outer garments hurriedly provided by the smith. After a moment's hesitation he ferreted out his revolver case from the bundle, and slipped the revolver inside his blouse.

"If they search me, I'm done for," he thought. "But they would shoot the smith if they found the thing here, so it's as broad as it is long. The case must go up the chimney."

Then, completely transformed, he came to the door in time to see a troop of the Death's Head Hussars gallop up the street.

They reined up at the door of the smithy.

"Now, you dog, answer me," said the major in command. "And tell the truth, or I'll cut your tongue out. Have you seen an aeroplane hereabout?"

"Oui da, mon colonel," replied the smith, with an ironical courtesy that delighted Burton. "I did see an aeroplane, it might be an hour ago. It came down close to those poplars yonder, but rose in a minute or two and sailed away to the west."

"Go and see if he is telling the truth," said the officer to two of his men. "And you, smith, look to my horse's shoes. Who is this young fellow? A deserter? a coward?"

"Oh, he's brave enough, mon colonel," the smith answered. "But the poor wretch is deaf and dumb, a sore trouble to himself and his friends. You may shout, and he will not hear you; and as to asking for his dinner, he can't do it. I only employ him out of compassion."

The officer glanced at Burton, who was trying to assume that pathetically eager expression, that busy inquiry of the eyes, which characterises deaf mutes.

"If he were a German we'd make him shoot, deaf or not," said the major. "You French are too weak. Well?"

The troopers had returned, and sat their horses rigidly at the salute.

"Without doubt an aeroplane descended there, Herr Major," one of them reported, "and it flew up again, for there are no more tracks."

"It is not worth while continuing the chase. Night is coming on. Quarter yourselves in the village--and keep the people quiet. No one is to leave his house."

The troopers saluted and rode off, leaving a captain, two lieutenants, and four orderlies with the major.

"Look alive, smith," cried that officer, in the domineering tone evidently habitual with him. "Are the shoes in good order?"

The smith turned up the hoofs one after another, and pronounced them perfectly shod.

"Very well; if any of the troopers' horses need shoeing, see that it is done promptly, or it will be the worse for you. Now for the chateau, gentlemen; monsieur le marquis will be delighted to entertain us."

There was a look upon his face that Burton could not fathom--an ugly smile that made him shiver. The horsemen rode away, and Boitelet, the smith, spat upon the ground.

II

"Come inside, monsieur," murmured the smith, glancing round to see that no German was within hearing. Then he threw up his hands and groaned.

"He is an insolent hound," said Burton, sympathetically.

"Ah, monsieur, it is not that; all these Prussians are brutes. I fear for monsieur le marquis."

"Who is the marquis? He has a soldierly look."

"He was a fine soldier, monsieur. Every Frenchman knows his name. In the army he was plain General du Breuil; here in his own country, where we love him, we give him his true title, that has come to him from the days of long ago. Ah! there is great trouble for him. I know that man."

"The major?"

"Major he may be; spy he was. It is clear. Listen, monsieur. Some three years ago, before monsieur le marquis retired from the army, he had in his service a secretary, said to be an Alsatian, very useful to monsieur, who was compiling his memoirs. One day he was dismissed, none of us knew why. Monsieur le marquis had discovered something, no doubt. There was a violent scene at the chateau. Monsieur's son, Captain du Breuil, kicked the secretary down the steps. He came into the village, hired a _caleche_ to drive him to the station, and departed. We have seen no more of him until this day. He is the major."

"You are sure?"

"It is certain, monsieur. He was then clean shaven, and now wears a moustache, but I know the scar on his cheek."

"And you fear he will insult the marquis?"

"Worse than that, monsieur. A few days ago monsieur le capitaine, brave soldier like his father, was wounded in action only a mile or two away, when our gallant cuirassiers charged the Bosches and drove them helter-skelter from their trenches. He was found on the field by old Guignet, and carried secretly to the chateau, and there he lies, horribly hurt by shrapnel."

"And now they will make him prisoner?"

"That would be bad enough, but I fear worse. The Bosches are brutal to all. What must we expect from a man who has a grudge to pay off, and finds his enemy helpless in his clutches? The major will not forgive his kicking."

"It's a bad look-out, certainly," said Burton. "I like your old general; he came to our help so quickly. But what about my engine?"

"Ah, oui, monsieur, it is a pity. I dare not leave the village now. The Bosches passed quickly through here in their retreat a few days ago; I did not expect to see their ugly faces again. You must wait, monsieur. Come into my house, and share our soup. If God pleases, the hounds will go again to-morrow."

Burton accepted the good man's offer of hospitality, and shared a simple meal with him, and his wife, and two wide-eyed children who gazed with interest at the stranger.

When the meal was nearly finished, the smith suddenly exclaimed--

"Ah! here comes old Pierre, with a German. Have a care, monsieur. Remember you are deaf and dumb."

Looking out of the window into the darkling street, Burton saw a bent old man tottering along by the side of one of the orderlies who had recently ridden away.

"They are not coming here, Dieu merci!" said the smith at his elbow. "They are going to the butcher's. These Germans eat like hogs."

"Who is the old man?" Burton asked.

"Servant of monsieur le marquis, monsieur. They have grown old together. There is no other left in the chateau. Some are at the war; the rest fled, maids and men, when the Germans came before. Ah! it is sad for monsieur and madame in their old age, and their son lying wounded, too."

The old serving-man passed from the butcher's to the baker's, and thence to other shops, with the orderly always at his side. Soon the old man was staggering under a load of purchases. He faltered and stopped, and the orderly shouted at him, and threatened him with his sword. Burton's blood boiled. He would have liked to catch the German by the neck and shake him until he howled for mercy.

Then an idea struck him. If he offered to help the laden old man he would make some return for the general's kindness; perhaps he might be of some further service in the chateau. He made the suggestion to the smith.

"It is madness, monsieur. You would put your head into the lion's mouth."