Part 13 (1/2)
But my mind was far away, above the heaving wastes of the Atlantic, and I saw an unnamed, unknown s.h.i.+p rus.h.i.+ng through the air, at a speed undreamed of hitherto in the history of flight. And in the pilot's seat I had a vision of a hawk-faced man with cruel eyes and a smile upon his hard, thin lips....
I stood there for so long that the very tail of the procession was pa.s.sing by, and Mr. Van Adams rose from his prayers with the sign of the Cross, and touched me on the arm.
”Look!” he said, pointing down into the street.
I followed his finger and saw Danjuro standing on the opposite kerb. He was looking after the cortege, and his face, with the expression on it, was quite clear to see....
In an instant I came out of my dream.
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN WITH THE WICKED FACE
On the morning after our arrival I stepped out of my bedroom window at Penzance and stood upon the balcony.
Many times had I flown over Cornwall; never had I set foot in the Duchy until now. Plymouth had always been my furthest west.
The sea was blue as the Mediterranean, the sky a huge hollow turquoise, the air all Arabia. Away in the bay St. Michael's Mount, crowned with towers, gleamed like a vision of the New Jerusalem in some old monkish missal--and the heart within me was so hard, stern, and full of deadly purpose that no summer seas nor balmy western winds could touch the rigour of my mood.
For we were on the battlefield now. There was no more vagueness nor speculation. I, in the place I occupied, owed a debt to society, and to myself a personal and bitter revenge. And those debts should be paid.
Danjuro knocked and entered the bedroom. Yesterday afternoon, within half an hour of our arrival at Penzance, he had disappeared, telling me not to wait up for him, as he could not say what time he would return. I accordingly went to bed early, for I was tired out, and had not seen him until now.
”I have been very busy, Sir John,” he said. ”In the characters of a mining engineer at one place and agent for a foreign s.h.i.+pping firm at another, I have been making some very necessary inquiries. I engaged a local motor--our own would hardly have suited the part--and I have covered a great deal of country.”
”And your exact object?”
”I have two. One is to discover any private engineering works where special engines could have been made in secret. You will remember that we both came to the conclusion that the Air Pirate could have obtained silent engines in no other way. The other is--petrol.”
”Petrol! I never thought of that! I see what you mean.”
”Precisely, Sir John. An airs.h.i.+p such as the one we are after must have a constant supply of petrol, and, of course, consumes enormous quant.i.ties. When I can connect a certain private individual with the receipt of such quant.i.ties, we are another step forward.”
”How have you got on?” I asked eagerly.
”I have nothing definite. But there are certain indications--slight, oh, very slight!--which I am following up. I will go into everything with you this evening. Meanwhile you have your own day mapped out.”
”Yes. I have studied the local maps and asked a good many questions.
After breakfast I shall walk over the moors to this little lonely village of Zerran. It is about eight miles away from here, and, I understand, not more than one and a half from Tregeraint Sea House, which is the home of Major Helzephron. There is a fair-sized old-fas.h.i.+oned inn on the cliffs where we shall probably be able to get rooms.”
”And settle down to our reading party,” he replied, with a sudden gleam in his narrow eyes. ”I have the Greek texts of Plato's 'Republic' and the 'Meno' in my portmanteau; it is wise to pay attention to details! We shall, then, meet at dinner this evening, and I expect that your news will be of great importance. With your permission, I shall take honourable Thumbwood with me. He will be useful.”
After breakfast, with some sandwiches and a flask, I set out, pa.s.sing down the main street of the far western town, and by the last station in England, till I found myself mounting a winding road which led upwards through a suburb towards the moorlands.
The air was heavy with the perfume of innumerable flowers. Tall palm-trees grew in the gardens of old granite houses, a sub-tropical flora flourished everywhere, and it was difficult to believe that one was in England. The hedges were luxuriant with ferns that grow in hot-houses elsewhere, Royal Osmunda and Maidenhair, and every moment the road grew steeper.
If you look at the map of Cornwall you will see that the extremity of the county forms a sort of peninsula. Penzance is on the south, and faces the English Channel on the south. My back was now turned to this, and I was walking due north, towards my objective, the vast and little known ”Hinterland” of mountainous moor and savage coast which lies between the Channel and the Atlantic.
As I went, the warmth and colour, the riot of Nature all round, seemed as unreal as a dream. It brought no ease or healing to my soul. Deep, deep down, though controlled and prisoned by the will, an unending agony was lying. I'm not going to insist upon this, or often obtrude it in my story. But you must not think that, until the very end, I knew a moment's peace. My dear love and her awful fate were ever before me, and all the sights and sounds of Nature in this western paradise breathed nothing but her name.