Part 9 (1/2)

Therefore, that night, after her work at the theatre, she went to Theodore Drost's house at Barnes, instead of returning to the flat at Kensington. As she always kept her room there and her visits seemed to delight old Drost, she was always able to keep in touch with Kennedy and so help to frustrate the evil machinations of her father.

As the days pa.s.sed she became more than ever confident that another deep-laid plot was in progress. Nor was she mistaken, for, truth to tell, Ortmann was having many long interviews with his clever catspaw, the man who posed as the plain and pious pastor of the Dutch Church, old Theodore Drost.

An incident occurred about a week later which showed the trend of events. The old pastor called one day at that modest, dreary little house close by Wandsworth Common, where Count Ernst von Ortmann, the man who secretly directed the agents of Germany in England, lived as plain Mr Horton whenever he grew tired of his beautiful house in Park Lane.

Leading, by the fact of his occupation a dual existence, it was necessary for his nefarious purposes that he should frequently disappear into South London, away from the fas.h.i.+onable friends who knew him as Mr Henry Harberton.

The pair were seated together that evening, smoking and discussing the cause of the failure of Rozelaar and the reason of his death by his own bomb.

”Ah! my dear Theodore,” exclaimed the Count, in German, throwing himself back in the old wicker armchair in that cheaply furnished room. ”Your machine was too elaborate.”

”No, you are mistaken, it was simplicity itself,” Drost declared.

”Could anybody have tampered with it, do you think?”

”Certainly not. n.o.body knew--n.o.body saw it except ourselves and Rozelaar,” Drost said.

”And we very nearly blew ourselves up with it during the test. Do you remember?” laughed Ortmann.

”Remember! I rather think I do. It was, indeed, a narrow escape. We won't repeat it. I'll be more careful, I promise you!” Drost a.s.sured his paymaster. ”Yet I cannot guess how Rozelaar lost his life.”

”Well, we need not trouble. His was not exactly a precious life, Theodore, was it? The fellow knew a little too much, so, for us, it is perhaps best that the accident should have happened.”

”It is not the first time that fatal accidents have happened to those who, having served Germany, are of no further use,” remarked Drost grimly.

And at his remark the crafty Count--the man who directed the German octopus in Britain--smiled, but remained silent.

Though Ella, still at Barnes, kept both eyes and ears open during the day--compelled, of course, to go to the theatre each evening--yet she could discover no solid fact which might lead her to find out what was in progress.

The Count came very often over to Barnes, and on two or three occasions was accompanied by a fair-haired young man whose real name was Schrieber, but who had changed it to Sommer, and declared himself to be a Swiss. Indeed, he had forged papers just as old Drost possessed. The fabrication of identification-papers--with photographs attached--became quite an industry in Germany after war had broken out, while many American pa.s.sports were purchased from American ”crooks” and fresh photographs cleverly superimposed.

One afternoon the young man Schrieber called, remained talking alone with Drost for about ten minutes, and then left. Presently the old man entered the drawing-room wherein his daughter was seated writing a letter. In his hand he carried a china vase about fourteen inches high, the dark-blue ornamentation being very similar to a ”willow-pattern”

plate. It was shaped something like a Greek amphora, and quite of ordinary quality.

”Ella, dear,” said her father, handing her the vase, ”I wish you could get one exactly like this. You'll be able to get it quite easily at one of the big stores in the West End. A friend of mine has a pair, and has broken one.”

”Certainly, dad,” was the girl's reply. ”I'm going out this afternoon, and I'll take it with me.” That afternoon Ella Drost went to several shops until at last, at one in Oxford Street, she found the exact replica. They were in pairs, and she was compelled to buy both. Later on she took them to Barnes, but before doing so she called in at her own flat and there left the superfluous vase.

Old Drost seemed highly delighted at securing the exact replica of the broken ornament.

”Excellent!” he said. ”Excellent! Really, my dear child, I thought that you would have had to get it made. And making things in war-time is such a very long process.”

”I had a little trouble, but I at last got a clue to where they had been bought, and there, sure enough, they had one pair still in stock.”

”Excellent! Excellent!” he grunted, and he carried off both the pattern vase and its companion to his little den where he usually did his writing.

That same evening, while the taxi was at the door to take Ella to the theatre, the Count called.

”Ah! Fraulein!” he cried, as he entered the dining-room where Ella stood ready dressed in her smart coat and hat, as became one who had been so successful in her profession and drew such a handsome salary, much to the envy of her less fortunate fellow-artistes. ”Why--you're quite a stranger--always away at the theatre whenever I call. I took some friends from the club to see you the night before last. That new waltz-song of yours is really most delightful--so catchy,” he added, speaking in German.

”Do you like it?” asked the bright, athletic girl who led such a strange semi-Bohemian life, and was yet filled with constant suspicion concerning her father. ”At first I did not like singing it, because I objected to some of the lines. But I see now that everyone seems attracted by it.”