CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

“There was some one else there, too, in whom you are still more interested.”

      He nodded.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “Mr. Vincent Cawdor,” she continued, “came in alone. He looked just as objectionable as ever, and he stared at me till I nearly threw my wine glass at him.”

      “He did not speak to you?” Peter Ruff asked.

      “I was afraid that he was going to,” Miss Brown said, “but fortunately he met a friend who came to his table and lunched with him.”

      “A friend,” Ruff remarked. “Good! What was he like?”

      “Fair, slight, Teutonic,” Miss Brown answered. “He wore thick spectacles, and his moustache was positively yellow.”

      Ruff nodded.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “Towards the end of luncheon,” she continued, “an American came up to them.”

      “An American?” Peter Ruff interrupted. “How do you know that?”

      Miss Brown smiled.

      “He was clean-shaven and he wore neat clothes,” she said. “He talked with an accent you could have cut with a knife and he had a Baedeker sticking out of his pocket. After luncheon, they all three went away to the smoking room.”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “Anything else?” he asked.

      The girl smiled triumphantly.

      “Yes!” she declared. “There was something else—something which I think you will find interesting. At the next table to me there was a man—alone. Can you guess who he was?”

      “John Dory,” Ruff said, calmly.

      The girl was disappointed.

      “You knew!” she exclaimed.

      “My dear Violet,” he said, “I did not send you there on a fool’s errand.”

      “There is something doing, then?” she exclaimed.

      “There is likely,” he answered, grimly, “to be a great deal doing!”

      The two men who stood upon the hill, and Peter Ruff, who lay upon his stomach behind a huge boulder, looked upon a new thing.

      Far down in the valley from out of a black shed—the only sign of man’s handiwork for many miles—it came—something grey at first, moving slowly as though being pushed down a slight incline, then afloat in the air, gathering speed—something between a torpedo with wings and a great prehistoric insect. Now and then it described strange circles, but mostly it came towards them as swift and as true as an arrow shot from a bow. The two men looked at one another—the shorter, to whose cheeks the Cumberland winds had brought no trace of colour, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation.

      “He’s done it!” he growled.

      “Wait!” the other answered.

      Over their heads the thing wheeled, and seemed to stand still in the air. The beating of the engine was so faint that Peter Ruff from behind the boulder, could hear all that was said. A man leaned out from his seat—a man with wan cheeks but blazing eyes.

      “Listen,” he said. “Take your glasses. There—due north—can you see a steeple?”

      The men turned their field glasses in the direction toward which the other pointed. “Yes!” they answered. “It is sixteen miles, as the crow flies, to Barnham Church—thirty-two miles there and back. Wait!”

      He swung round, dived till he seemed about to touch the hillside, then soared upwards and straight away. Peter Ruff took out his watch. The other two men gazed with fascinated eyes after the disappearing speck.

      “If he does it—” the shorter one muttered.

      “He will do it!” the other answered.

      He was back again before their eyes were weary of watching. Peter Ruff, from behind the boulder, closed his watch. Thirty-two miles in less than half an hour! The youth leaned from his seat.

      “Is it enough?” he asked, hoarsely.

      “It is enough!” the two men answered together. “We will come down.”

      The youth touched a lever and the machine glided down towards the valley, falling all the while with the effortless grace a parachute. The shed from which his machine had issued was midway down a slope, with a short length of rails which ran, apparently, through it. The machine seemed to hover for several moments above the building, then descended slowly on to the rails and disappeared in the shed. The two men were already half-way down the hill. Peter Ruff rose from behind the boulder, stretched himself with a sense of immense relief, and lit a pipe. As yet he dared not descend. He simply changed his hiding place for a spot which enabled him to command a view of the handful of cottages at the back of the hill. He had plenty to think about. It was a wonderful thing—this—which he had seen!

      The youth, meanwhile, was drinking deep of the poisonous cup. He walked between the two men—his cheeks were flushed, his eyes on fire.

      “If all the world to-day had seen what we have seen,” the older man was saying, “there would be no more talk of Wilbur Wrights or Farmans. Those men are babies, playing with their toys.”

      “Mine is the ideal principle,” the youth declared. “No one else has thought of it, no one else has made use of it. Yet all the time I am afraid—it is so simple.”

      “Sell quick, then,” the fair-headed man advised. “By to-morrow night I can promise you fifty thousand pounds.”

      The youth stopped. He drew a deep breath.

      “I shall sell,” he declared. “I need money. I want to live. Fifty thousand pounds is enough. Eleven weary months I have slept and toiled there in the shed.”

      “It is finished,” the older man declared. “To-night you shall come with us to London. To-morrow night your pockets shall be full of gold. It will be a change for you.”

      The youth sobbed.

      “God knows it will,” he muttered. “I haven’t two shillings in the world, and I owe for my last petrol.”

      The two men laughed heartily. The elder took a little bundle of notes from his pocket and handed them to the boy.

      “Come,” he said, “not for another moment shall you feel as poor as that. Money will have no value for you in the future. The fifty thousand pounds will only be a start. After that, you will get royalties. If I had it, I would give you a quarter of a million now for your plans; I know that I can get you more.”

      The youth laughed hysterically. They entered the tiny inn and drank home-made wine—the best they could get. Then a great car drew up outside, and the older—the clean-shaven man, who looked like an American—hurried out, and dragging a hamper from beneath the seat returned with a gold-foiled bottle in his hand.

      “Come,” he said, “a toast! We have one bottle left—one bottle of the best!”

      “Champagne!” the youth cried eagerly, holding out his hand.

      “The only wine for the conquerors,” the other declared, pouring it out into the thick tumblers. “Drink, all of you, to the Franklin Flying Machine, to the millions she will earn—to to-morrow night!”

      The youth drained his glass, watched it replenished, and drained it again. Then they went out to the car.

      “There is one thing yet to be done,” he said. “Wait here for me.”

      They waited whilst he climbed up toward the shed. The two men watched him. A little group of rustics stood open-mouthed around the great car. Then there was a little shout. From above their heads came the sound of a great explosion—red flames were leaping