The Men Who Wrought. Cullum Ridgwell
He had been interrupted in his correspondence by the Prime Minister's summons, and now he was anxious to be done with it, and be free to contemplate the new situation in the light of those many purposes he had in view.
As he sat down at his desk the door in the oak panelling at the far end of the room was thrust open and his secretary appeared. In a few moments these two were absorbed in their work with a thoroughness which was characteristic of Ruxton. Thus for two hours and more the memory of his promotion was completely thrust into the background.
The butler had just brought him in a tray of afternoon tea, and the two men took the opportunity to abandon their work for a few minutes' leisure.
Ruxton leant back in his chair and lit a cigar, while the secretary lit a cigarette and poured out the tea.
"Our labors have borne fruit, Heathcote," said Ruxton, seizing the moment to impart his good news. "We are raised from the rank and file. Our future lies on the front benches."
"The Cabinet?"
"Yes, the Cabinet."
Nor could Ruxton quite control the delight surging through him.
"Now we begin to see the development of all those long-laid plans we have so ceaselessly worked upon, Heathcote," he went on. "Now we are getting nearer to the position which will enable us to bring about something of that security for this old country for which we both so ardently long. Now—Heathcote—now!"
There was a passionate triumph underlying the idealist's words which found ample reflection in the dark eyes of the keen-faced secretary.
The Honorable Harold Heathcote, a younger son in an old English family, had been Ruxton's secretary from the beginning of his political career; he was a brilliant youngster who had determined upon a political career for himself, and had, with considerable shrewdness, pinned his faith to the banner which, from the beginning of his career, Ruxton Farlow had unfurled for himself. These two men were working for a common purpose.
"I knew it would come, Mr. Farlow," said Heathcote with cordial enthusiasm. "And there'll be more to follow, or I have no understanding of the times. I am glad. Very glad."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Heathcote rose to answer it. When he returned he handed two telegrams to his chief.
"Telegrams," he said laconically, and returned to his seat and to his tea.
Ruxton ran a paper knife through the envelopes. The first message was from his father. It was brief, cordial, but urgent.
"Heartiest congratulations. Immensely delighted. Must see you at once. Inventor turned out most important as well as mysterious.—Farlow."
Ruxton read the message over two or three times. Then he deliberately tore it up into small pieces and dropped it in the waste-paper basket.
He opened the second message with a preoccupied air. He was thinking—thinking deeply. But in a moment all his preoccupation vanished as he glanced over its contents. He hungrily devoured the words written on the tinted paper.
"Am delighted at your promotion. I anticipated it. My most heartfelt good wishes. Do not let this success make you forget our meeting. Dare I hope that you may find your way to 17, Streamside Mansions, Kensington?—Vita Vladimir."
It was some moments before Ruxton's eyes left that message. A world of unsuspected emotion was stirring within him. He had not forgotten. He was never likely to forget. But in the midst of his emotion some freak of mind had caught and held the significance of this mysterious creature's congratulations. How—how had she learned of—his promotion, when no one but himself and the Prime Minister knew of it?
Suddenly he bestirred himself. He carefully refolded Vita's message, and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to Heathcote.
"I shall have to go to Dorby to-night. My father wants me. It is rather important. Fortunately things here will not require me just now. But you must notify me of anything important happening. Meanwhile give orders to have my things got ready, and look me out a train. I must run out to send a wire."
"Can't I send it for you?"
"No-o. I think not, thanks."
CHAPTER IV
MR. CHARLES SMITH
A profound silence reigned in the library at Dorby Towers.
The pungent aroma of cigars weighed upon the atmosphere in spite of the wide proportions of the apartment. Considerable light was shed from the antique sconces upon the walls, as also by the silver candelabra upon the long refectory table which ran down the centre of the room. But withal it was powerless to dispel the dark suggestion of the old bookcases which lined the walls of the room.
Two men were occupying one side of the table, and Ruxton Farlow sat alone at the other. The eyes of all three were focussed intently upon the object lying upon the table, which was a ten-foot model of a strange-looking water craft.
The first to break the spell of the burden of silence was Sir Andrew Farlow, who, with a bearded stranger, occupied the side of the table opposite his son. But his was no attempt at speech. He merely leant forward with an elbow on the polished oak, and his fingers softly stroking his square chin and tightly compressed lips. He was humming softly, an expression of an intently occupied mind. The fixity of his gaze suggested a desire to bore a way to the heart of the secrets the strange model contained.
The bearded stranger was watching him closely while his eyes appeared to be focussed upon the object of interest, and presently, as though the psychological moment had arrived, he, too, leant forward, and, with an arm stretched out, terminating in a long, lean, tenacious-looking hand, he pressed a button on the side of the model. Instantly the whole interior of it was lit electrically, and the light shone through a series of exquisitely finished glass-covered port-holes extending down the vessel's entire sides.
He spoke no word, but sat back in his chair and went on smoking, while he closely watched for any sign of impression which the two interested spectators displayed.
The moments slipped by. The patient stranger sat on with his long lean legs crossed, and a benevolent smile in his large eyes. After a while Ruxton sat back in his chair. Then Sir Andrew abandoned his inspection, and turned to the man beside him.
It seemed to be the cue awaited, for the stranger promptly leant forward again and released a spring by the movement of a switch. Instantly the model split in half, and, opening much in the fashion of a pea-pod, displayed the longitudinal sections of its interior.
Simultaneously the two men whose lives had been hitherto given up to ship construction rose to their feet, and pored over the wonderful and delicate mechanism and design the interior revealed.
Then it was that Sir Andrew verbally broke the silence.
"Will you explain, Mr. Smith?"
The inventor removed his cigar.
"You know—marine mechanism?" he enquired.
Sir Andrew nodded.
"Yes, unless there is a new principle here."
"It is the perfected submarine principle which was used towards the end of the war. There is no fresh detail in that direction."
"We have a complete knowledge of that principle," said Ruxton. "We have been constructing for the Admiralty throughout the war."
"Good."
There was a distinct "T" at the end of the word as Mr. Smith spoke it.
Ruxton shot a quick glance in his direction. The man's whole personality was an unusual one. He was very tall, and very thin. His intellectual head, quite nobly