The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History

We had passed through the little town, and out again upon the Lewes road when, having gone about four miles, we suddenly saw a big dark green limousine standing at the roadside. The chauffeur, whose coat was off, had evidently got tyre-trouble, and, the road at that bend being very narrow, I was compelled to slow down in order to pass.

Beside the car, watching the chauffeur as he worked, was a middle-aged man in a thick drab motor-coat and cap of shepherd’s plaid, while beside him stood a tall, erect woman in furs. The man was idly smoking a cigar end and laughing with the woman, and as we passed the latter turned to gaze at us. In the passing glance I obtained of her I saw that hers was a hard, thin face, with high cheek-bones, an unusually pointed chin, and a curious expression in her eyes.

Somehow – why I cannot tell – I thought she regarded us a little inquisitively.

Next instant Roseye, in breathless fear, clutched at my arm, gasping:

“Quick, Claude! For Heaven’s sake let’s get away!”

“Why?” I asked, much surprised at the sudden terror she had evinced.

“That woman!” cried my love, in a voice of alarm. “Did she see me – do you think she saw me?” she asked, her trembling hand still upon my arm.

“How could she, through that veil?” I asked. “It was impossible.”

“Is my veil really thick enough to conceal my face entirely?” she asked eagerly.

“Not absolutely to conceal it, but to render identification extremely difficult at such a distance,” I replied. “But – tell me, why are you trembling like this, Roseye?”

“Oh, drive on,” she cried. “Drive quickly. Do! She saw you – she will know you from those photographs in the newspapers. I saw by her look that she recognised you. Don’t glance round. Keep on, keep on! Go as fast as ever you can. Save me from her – oh! do save me, Claude!” she implored.

I saw, with much apprehension, that her unaccountable mental agitation was returning.

“But who is the woman?” I demanded eagerly. “She’s a perfect stranger to me.”

“Ah! but not to me, Claude! That woman!” she gasped, as her gloved hands lying upon her knees clutched convulsively. “That woman is – she’s the Woman with the Leopard’s Eyes!”

“That woman!” I ejaculated, amazed. “Was that really the woman?”

“Yes. But – why is she about here? She means mischief, Claude. She means to do us both harm!”

“And the man?” I asked, bending to her without glancing into her face, for I was driving at increased pace in obedience to her command. “Who is he?”

“I couldn’t see his face – only hers – the fiend!”

“Shall we turn back and watch their movements?” I suggested.

“No, no! A thousand times no!” she shrieked, apparently terrified at such a suggestion. “Don’t go near her. Save me from her – won’t you, Claude? If you love me, don’t let her approach me. Will you?”

“Trust in me, darling,” I said reassuringly, yet greatly puzzled at the unexpected encounter, and in fear also that sudden sight of the hated woman might bring on another nerve attack.

She drew aside her veil and lifted her close-fitting little motor-hat from her brow, as though its weight oppressed her. Then I noticed how pale and terrified was her face. She had blanched to the very lips.

“Don’t trouble about the matter any more,” I urged, yet I knew well that sight of the mysterious woman had recalled to her memory some evil and terrible recollection that she had been striving to put from her for ever.

“But I do trouble about it, Claude,” she said in a harsh, apprehensive voice. “I fear for you more than I fear for myself. She is your enemy, as well as mine. Against her we are, both of us, powerless.”

I pricked up my ears at her words.

“What do you mean, Roseye?” I asked. “How can she be my enemy? I’ve never before set eyes upon the woman!”

“Ah! you don’t know, dear – so you can’t understand,” was my love’s impatient reply.

“No. I want you to tell me,” I said. “If danger really besets both of us, is it not your duty to explain the facts to me, and leave me to take steps to protect ourselves?”

“Yes. I would tell you, dear – only – only – ”

“Only what?”

“Only – well – only I can’t!” she answered evasively. Then, a second later, she added: “I told you, Claude, long ago that I couldn’t tell you anything.”

“You hold some secret; and yet you conceal it from me!” I remarked in a tone of reproach.

“Because – because I am compelled. I – I am in fear – in deadly fear, Claude!”

“In fear of what?” I asked, for I saw by her demeanour that such was the nerve-strain that she was on the point of tears.

For a second she hesitated. Then she said:

“In fear of that woman – the one with the Leopard’s Eyes.”

I saw it was quite useless to argue further with her while driving, for we were then travelling at a great pace, and had already passed the four-ways at the Cross-in-Hand.

She lapsed into a long silence, seated immovably at my side, her gaze was fixed blankly upon the muddy road that constantly opened out before us.

On the previous night we had been flying over that very road.

I remarked upon it, in order to change the conversation, but she only nodded. Truly her figure was a pathetic one, for she had turned back her veil, so that the air might cool her troubled brain.

As a result that passing glimpse of the mysterious woman whom she held in such fearsome terror, her whole attitude had again in become changed. She looked wild and haggard, and in her great blue eyes, so clear and trustful, there was a queer, uncanny look that caused me both wonderment and apprehension.

On we went, through Hailsham and Polegate, until we ran over the steep hill at Willingdon, and at last descended through Eastbourne Old Town, until we reached the busy Terminus Road of the fashionable go-ahead watering-place, the road which led to the fine sea-front so beloved by the summer visitor.

Roseye having done her shopping in the Terminus Road, we ran along past the Wish Tower to the Grand Hotel, where we took tea at one of the little wicker tables in the glass-fronted lounge, and afterwards smoked cigarettes.

Though it was winter, the hotel was filled by a smart crowd.

I met Tringham, who had learnt flying with me and who was now a naval Flight-Commander. He was with his young wife and we four had a long gossip, but of course I said nothing of our secret flight on the previous night.

Naturally, our talk was of Zeppelins, and in the course of our chat Tringham, who was in naval uniform, discussed with me what was necessary to damage a Zeppelin sufficiently to bring her down.

“The question,” he declared emphatically, “has several answers. If the machine is hit fair and square by an explosive-incendiary projectile, which ignites the gas as it escapes from the damaged gas-bags after mixing with the air, it is certain it will crash to earth a blazing wreck, as the one did behind the French lines the other day. But rifle bullets will do little harm, as they only make small holes, which often can be repaired by the crew whilst aloft.”

“I quite agree that rifles against a Zeppelin are just about as efficacious as firing with pea-shooters,” I remarked.

“The public have not yet realised that a Zeppelin is a very difficult thing to attack successfully,” declared the Flight-Commander, who as one of the best-known of our naval pilots, had done much heroic work, and was now stationed somewhere on the East Coast. “Shells which don’t hit fair to the mark may badly damage one of the eighteen ballonets, but this is not sufficient to bring her down. However, it may partially cripple the machine by upsetting its stability, and it is then highly dangerous to run the powerful engines at speed. To hit either of the gondolas would, of course, do serious harm, but at six thousand feet they are at night an almost invisible mark, and it is only by a lucky chance they would be damaged.”

“And what, in your opinion, is the best means of destroying Zeppelins?” Roseye asked, with a sly glance at me.