however, was proved by the fact thatat dawn next day his body was picked up on the other side of the bay.Yet long before, Theodore Drost, suspecting that something was amiss byhis fellow spy's non-return, had left by train for London.
Seymour Kennedy was next day called to the Admiralty and thanked for hiskeen vigilance, but he only smiled and kept a profound secret the activepart played by his particular friend, the popular actress--Miss StellaSteele.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE GREAT TUNNEL PLOT.
"There! Is it not a very neat little toy, my dear Ernst?" askedTheodore Drost, speaking in German, dressed in his usual funereal blackof a Dutch pastor, as everyone believed him to be.
Ernst Ortmann, the man addressed, screwed up his eyes, a habit of his,and eagerly examined the heavy walking-stick which his friend had handedto him.
It was a thick bamboo-stump, dark-brown and well-polished, bearing aheavy iron ferrule.
The root-end, which formed the bulgy knob, the wily old German hadunscrewed, revealing in a cavity a small cylinder of brass. ThisOrtmann took out and, in turn, unscrewed it, disclosing a curiousarrangement of cog-wheels--a kind of clockwork within.
"You see that as long as the stick is carried upright the clock does notwork," Drost explained. "But,"--and taking it from his friend's hand heheld it in a horizontal position--"but as soon as it is laid upon theground, the mechanical contrivance commences to work. See!"
And the man Ortmann--known as Horton since the outbreak of war--gazedupon it and saw the cog-wheels slowly revolving.
"By Jove!" he gasped. "Yes. Now I see. What a devilish invention itis! It can be put to so many uses!"
"Exactly, my dear friend," laughed the supposed Dutch pastor, crossingthe secret room in the roof of his house at Barnes.
It was afternoon, and the sunlight streaming through the skylight fellupon the place wherein the bomb-makers worked in secret. The roomcontained several deal tables whereon stood many bottles containingexplosive compounds, glass retorts, test-tubes, and glass apothecaries'scales, with all sorts of other apparatus used in the delicate work ofmanufacturing and mixing high-explosives.
"You see," Drost went on to explain, as he indicated a large mortar ofmarble. "I have been treating phenol with nitric acid and have obtainedthe nitrate called trinitrophenol. I shall fill this case with it, andthen we shall have an unsuspicious-looking weapon which will eventuallyprove most useful to us--for it can be carried in perfect safety, onlyit must not be laid down."
Ortmann laughed. He saw that his friend's inventive mind had producedan ingenious, if devilish, contrivance. He had placed death in thatinnocent-looking walking-stick--certain death to any person unconsciousof the peril.
Indeed, as Ortmann watched, his friend carefully filled the cavity inthe brass cylinder with the explosive substance, and placed within avery strong detonator which he connected with the clockwork, winding itto the full. He then rescrewed the cap upon the fatal cylinder,replacing it in the walking-stick and readjusting the knob, which closedso perfectly that only close inspection would reveal anything abnormalin the stick.
"The other stuff is there already, I suppose?"
"I took it down there the night before last in four petrol-tins."
"The new stuff?"
"Yes. It is a picric acid derivative, and its relative force is twiceas great as that of gun-cotton," was the reply of the grey-haired man.He spoke with knowledge and authority, for had he not been one of thekeenest explosive experts in the German arsenal at Spandau before he hadassumed the role of the Dutch pastor in England?
"It will create some surprise there," remarked Ortmann, with an evilgrin upon his sardonic countenance. "Your girl knows nothing, I hope?"
"Absolutely nothing. I have arranged to carry out our plans as soon aspossible, to-morrow night, or the night after. Bohlen and Tragheim areboth assisting."
"Excellent! I congratulate you, my dear Drost, upon your clevercontrivance. Truly, you are a good son of the Fatherland, and I willsee that you receive your due and proper reward when our brave brothershave landed upon English soil."
"You are the eyes and brains of Germany in England," declared Drost tohis friend. "I am only the servant. You are the organiser. Yours isthe Mysterious Hand which controls, and controls so well, the thousandsof our fellow-Teutons, all of whom are ready for their allotted taskwhen the Day of Invasion comes."
"I fear you flatter me," laughed Mr Horton, whom none suspected to beanything else than a patriotic Englishman.
"I do not flatter you. I only admire your courage and ingenuity," wasthe quiet reply.
And then the two alien enemies, standing in that long, low-ceilingedlaboratory, containing as it did sufficient high-explosives to blow upthe whole of Hammersmith and Barnes, bent over the long deal table uponwhich stood a long glass retort containing some bright yellow crystalsthat were cooling.
Theodore Drost, being one of Germany's foremost scientists, had beensent to England before the war, just as a number of others had beensent, as an advance guard of the Kaiser's Army which the German GeneralStaff intended should eventually raid Great Britain. Truly, theforesight, patience, and thoroughness of the Hun had been astounding.The whole world's history contained nothing equal to the amazing craftand cunning displayed by those who were responsible for Germany's SecretService--that service known to its agents under the designation of"Number Seventy, Berlin."
It was fortunate that there was hardly a person in the whole of Londonwho knew of the relationship between Stella Steele, the clever revueartiste, whose songs were the rage of all London and whose photographswere in all the shop-windows, and the venerable Dutch pastor. With hisusual craft, Drost, knowing how thoroughly English was his daughter, hadalways posed to her as a great admirer of England and English ways. Tojudge by his protestations, he was a hater of the Kaiser and all hisSatanic works.
If, however, Ella--to give Stella her baptismal name--could have lookedinto that long, low attic, which her father always kept so securelylocked, she would have been struck by the evil gloating of both men.
Ortmann--whom she always held in suspicion--had conceived the plot amonth ago--a foul and dastardly plot--and old Drost, as his paidcatspaw, was about to put it into execution forthwith.
Next night, just about half-past ten, Stella Steele gay, laughing, withone portion of her lithe body clothed in the smartest of ultra costumesby a famous French _couturiere_, the remainder of her figure eithersilk-encased or undraped, bounded off the stage of the popular theatrenear Leicester Square, and fell into the arms of her grey-haireddresser.
It was Saturday night, and the "house," packed to suffocation, wereroaring applause.
"Lights up!" shouted the stage-manager, and Stella, holding her breathand patting her hair, staggered against the scenery, half-fainting withexhaustion, and then, with a fierce effort, tripped merrily upon thestage and smilingly bowed to her appreciative and enthusiastic audience.
The men in khaki, officers and "Tommies," roared for an encore. Therevue had "caught on," and Stella Steele was the rage of London.Because she spoke and sang in French just as easily as she did inEnglish, her new song, in what was really a very inane but tunefulrevue--an up-to-date variation of musical comedy--had already beenadopted in France as one of the marching songs of the French army.
From paper-seller to Peer, from drayman to Duke: in the houses ofPeckham and Park Lane, in Walworth and in Wick, the world hummed, sang,or drummed out upon pianos and pianolas that catchy chorus which ran:
Dans la tranchee... La voila, la joli' tranche: Tranchi, trancho, tranchons le Boche; La voila, la joli' tranche aux Boches, La voila, la joli' tranche!
As she came off, a boy handed her a note which she tore open and,glancing at it, placed her hand upon her chest as though to stay thewild beating of her heart.
"Say yes," was her brief reply to the lad, who a moment laterdisappeared.
She walked to her dressing-room and, f
linging herself into the chair,sat staring at herself in the glass, much to the wonder of thegrey-haired woman who dressed her.
"I'm not at all well," she said to the woman at last. "Go and tell MrFarquhar that I can't go on again to-night. Miss Lambert must take myplace in the last scene."
"Are you really ill, miss?" asked the woman eagerly.
"Yes. I've felt unwell all day, and the heat to-night has upset me. IfI went on again I should faint on the stage. Go and tell Mr Farquharat once."
The woman obeyed, whereupon Stella Steele commenced to divest herselfrapidly of the rich and daring gown. Her one desire was to get awayfrom the theatre as soon as possible.
Mr Farquhar, the stage-manager, came to the door to express regret ather illness, and within a few minutes Miss