The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History

“No, never!” was her plain and instant reply.

“Why not?”

“There are reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Reasons of my own. Strong reasons.”

“And may I not know them?” I asked with some resentment.

“No, Claude – I can never reveal the truth – not even to you.” She was now quite her old self.

“But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly,” I protested. “You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling.”

“Exactly,” she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of hers. “That’s just my point. If you love me as you declare – and I believe you do – then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further questioning me.”

Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply. It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.

She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement whatever regarding it.

Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the discovery of that secret memorandum in her card-case, and the allegation made against her by the red-tabbed Intelligence officer.

I was on the point of telling her what had been discovered – the purport of the cipher-message and the suspicion which rested upon her. Yet, would that induce her to be frank and tell me the truth? I decided that it would not, therefore I said nothing. Instead, I remarked in a low, sympathetic voice: “I really think, darling, that it is due to me – to your people also – that you should tell us the truth of what happened to you, and of the identity of your enemies.”

“I have already told you, Claude,” was her quiet response. “If you really love me, then you should at least trust me.”

“I do trust you, darling!” I protested quickly. “You surely know that! You are in possession of all the secrets of our invention, and – ”

“Ah! the invention —the invention!” she cried and, as she suddenly recollected it, her whole manner instantly changed.

She started from her chair crying: “Yes – yes! Now I remember! I remember! It was awful – terrible – ugh! Ah! my poor brain!” and again she drew her hand across her brow. “My poor head!”

She paused but, next second, she turned to me, exclaiming in a tone quite unusual to her:

“No! I shall tell you nothing – I shall say nothing! I do not want to remember – I pray only to forget – yes, to forget all – everything. It is too horrible! Too cruel!” and I saw that my reference to our secret apparatus had stirred another chord in her memory – one that caused her both fierce anger and bitter remorse.

That fact, in itself, revealed to me quite plainly that her tragic experiences, whatever they might have been, had some curious connexion with our invention for the destruction of Zeppelins. Thus, arguing with myself further, I became more than ever convinced that she, in all her innocence, had fallen defenceless into the unscrupulous grip of the terrible but relentless Invisible Hand.

Why did she so persistently withhold from me the truth? What more natural than, knowing the identity of her enemies, she should seek to denounce and justly punish them? Now she was back at my side she surely could not fear them!

Certainly her demeanour was most mysterious, and I stood there, facing her, utterly bewildered. The expression in her dear face was quite uncanny.

Once again I begged her to tell me something – however slight – regarding what had occurred to her. I told her of our tireless search; of the eager hue and cry; of the publication of her portrait, and of the offered reward for any information.

“Ah!” she replied, with a strange, faint smile, as though of triumph almost. “All that was to no effect. The precautions taken were far too complete. Nobody could have found me – for I was in a living grave.”

“Yes,” I said, hoping that she would reveal to me something more, however vague. “Tell me about it, darling. Do, Roseye.”

“Tell you!” she echoed with angry resentment, putting me from her firmly and staring at me. “No, never!” Then a second later she turned towards the curtained window and shrieked:

“Ah! look! – that accursed woman again! Why do you allow her to come here – if you love me, Claude!”

“She is not here,” I declared firmly. “It is all your silly imagination!”

“She is!” cried my love wildly. “You are lying to me! She’s there! Over there! Kill her – Claude – or she will kill you – ah! that Woman with the Leopard’s Eyes!”

Chapter Fourteen

False or True?

One bright crisp afternoon in mid-December, Roseye, wrapped warmly in her furs, sat beside me in the car as we sped through Leatherhead on our way out to Burford Bridge, where we had decided to have tea.

In the grey wintry light the landscape had become gloomy and depressing. Yet my love chatted merrily as we sped along.

Since that well-remembered evening at my rooms when she had made her sudden reappearance on my threshold from nowhere, the days had been very dark and terribly anxious ones.

After her refusal to tell me anything, I had taken her home, where her sudden arrival had been as a thunderbolt to her parents. But alas! her overstrained brain had then given way, and for three weeks she had remained in bed under the care of Sir Charles Needham, one of the greatest mental specialists in Harley Street.

Thanks to his skill, she had slowly recovered – very slowly it seemed to me.

A dozen times I had chatted with Sir Charles, and he had admitted to me that the case was not only most unusual, but almost unique. He could not obtain from her any lucid account of what had occurred after she had left home on that fatal morning. She had contradicted herself so many times.

Any reference to inventions, to electricity, to trains, to Zeppelins, or to women, sent her into fierce paroxysms of anger. Her attitude was most mysterious. In fact her adventures during the time she had been missing were enveloped in a dark cloud of mystery which, even Barton himself, was unable to penetrate.

Captain Pollock, of course, had been informed and had repeated his red-taped suspicions. But, having no reliable or actual evidence upon which to base his assertions, Barton seemed inclined to disregard them.

I noticed this, putting it down to the usual disagreement which exists in officialdom the world over. No one official has ever been known to be in actual accord with another in another Department. That’s why the clock of State creaks on so rustily in every civilised community.

Arrived at that motoring rendezvous, the Burford Bridge Hotel, we took a stroll in its picturesque grounds on the slope of Box Hill, leafless and deserted on that December afternoon.

Having walked some distance along the gravelled paths, we sat together upon a seat, when her sudden silence caused me to ponder. Since we had been walking she had scarcely uttered a word, and had appeared utterly absorbed.

At last she exclaimed:

“I shall be so very glad when they let me fly again, Claude. I feel ever so much better now – quite my old self again.”

“I’m delighted to hear that,” was my reply. “But you must wait another week or two before you take out your machine. Your man is overhauling it thoroughly. When I was at Hendon yesterday I saw that he had taken down the engine.”

“Yes. I’m most anxious to help you, dear, with your great invention. How is it getting on?”

“Famously,” I replied. “Teddy and I have been working hard for the last four days, and have made progress in both lightening the weight of the outfit, and increasing its power. I’ve ordered a big new dynamo to be constructed on such lines that it can be placed on my machine with a second engine. This engine will either run the dynamo, or the propeller.”

“Of course, I quite see,” she exclaimed. “You must have a second engine for night-flying. How long will it be, do you think, before you can make a trial flight?” she asked anxiously.

“Early in January I hope, darling.”

“And you will let me come with you – won’t you? Now promise me. Do,” she urged, placing her gloved hand upon my arm, and looking earnestly into my face.