Number 70, Berlin Part 17

Neither man replied. What could they do, save to warn the War Office, who they knew would probably turn a deaf ear to all their suspicions?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

TOWARDS THE BRINK.

Later that same evening Jack, who had walked down Fitzjohn's Avenue to Mr Shearman's, as was his habit, found Elise's father at home.

Though old Dan Shearman, a hale, bluff North-country man, rather liked young Sainsbury, yet, at heart, he would have preferred a man of established prosperity as his daughter's husband--a manufacturer like himself, or a professional man with a good paying practice. Dan Shearman--as everybody called him in Birmingham--was a practical man, and had made a fortune by dint of hard toil and strict economy. He had begun as a half-timer in a cotton-mill in Oldham, and had risen, step by step, until now he was one of the biggest private employers of labour in the Midlands.

For years he had hoped that Elise would make a rich marriage, yet her chance meeting with Jack Sainsbury had suddenly turned the course of events, and both he and his wife could not hide from themselves how deeply the young couple had fallen in love with one another. More than once husband and wife had consulted as to whether it would not be to Elise's future interest if they broke off the attachment. Indeed, just before the outbreak of war, they had contemplated sending Elise for a long stay with her aunt, who was married to an English merchant in Palerno.

Yet, partly because the girl begged to remain in London, and partly because of Mrs Shearman's liking for young Sainsbury, the bluff old fellow gave way--though there always remained the fact that Jack was a mere clerk and that, at the present time, he was out of a situation.

That he had been rejected by the military doctors Mr Shearman knew, but he was unaware that Jack had been left a legacy by the doctor who had so mysteriously committed suicide in Wimpole Street.

"Hey, lad!" old Dan cried cheerily, as Jack entered the little smoking-room. "Sit yer down a moment, an' have a cigarette. There's some over yonder!"

When the young man had lit up and seated himself, Shearman asked:

"Well! what's the pay-pers say to-night--eh? Aw wonder 'ow this 'ere war is goin' on?"

"Badly, sir, I fear," was Sainsbury's prompt reply. "We don't seem to be able to move against the superior power of the enemy."

"Superior power be 'anged, lad!" cried the round-faced, grey-haired old man, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng as he spoke. "Aw don't believe in what these 'ere writers talk about--their big guns, their superior power, an' all that! We're still powerful enough in good old England to lick the 'ole lot o' them sour-krowts, as I 'eard a man in New Street callin' 'em yesterday."

"Well, I hope so," laughed Sainsbury, who really was anxious to get upstairs to the drawing-room, where he knew Elise was eagerly awaiting him. "But at present we seem to be progressing very slowly. The Russian steam-roller, as it was called, has come to a halt."

"Ah! a bit more o' them there writers' bunk.u.m! What aw say is that we're a-bein' misled altogether. Nawbody tells the truth, and nawbody writes it. What yer reads to-day, lad, 'll be flatly contradicted to-morrow. So what's the use o' believin' anything?"

He was, truly, a bluff old chap who, born and bred in Lancas.h.i.+re, had afterwards spent three parts of his life in and about Birmingham. Old Dan Shearman was a man who always wanted hard facts, and when he got them he would make use of them in business, as well as elsewhere, with an ac.u.men far greater than many men who had been educated at a public school. He rather prided himself upon his national-school training, and was fond of remarking, "Aw doan't pretend to much book-learnin', but aw knows my trade, an aw knows 'ow to make money by it--which a lot o'

people doan't!"

Jack Sainsbury always found him amusing, for he was full of dry, witty remarks; and as he sat for a quarter of an hour, or so, the old fellow, puffing at his cigar--though he always smoked his pet pipe in his private office at the works--made some very caustic remarks about official red-tape at Whitehall.

"We're a-makin' munitions now," he explained. "But oh! the queries we get, and the visits from officers in uniform--people who come and tell me 'ow aw should run my business, yet the first time they've ever seen a Drummond lathe is in one of my workshops. Aw say that 'arf of it's all a mere wicked waste of a man's time!"

"Yes," sighed the young man--"I suppose there is far too much officialism; and yet perhaps it is necessary." Then he added, "Is Elise at home, do you know?"

"Yes, she's at 'ome, lad--she's at 'ome!" laughed the old fellow cheerily. "Aw know you want to go oop to 'er. Well, aw did the same when I wor your age. Aw won't keep yer longer. So go oop, lad, an' see 'er. My wife's out somewhere--gone to see one of 'er fine friends, I expect."

Jack did not want further persuasion. Leaving the old man, he closed the door, ran up the carpeted steps two at a time and, in a few moments, held his well-beloved fondly in his arms.

She looked very pretty that night--a sweet, rather demure little figure in a smart, but young-looking dinner-gown of pale cornflower-blue crepe-de-chine, a dress which well became her, setting off her trim, dainty figure to perfection, while the touch of velvet of the same shade in her fair hair enhanced her beauty.

"Oh! I'm so glad you've come, dear!" cried the girl, as she looked fondly into her lover's face with those clear, childlike eyes, which held him always beneath their indescribable spell. And as he imprinted soft kisses upon her lips, she added: "Do you know, Jack, I may be most awfully silly--probably you'll say I am--but the truth is I have suddenly been seized by grave apprehensions concerning you."

"Why, darling?" he asked quickly, still holding her in his strong arms.

"Well, I'll confess, however silly it may appear," said the girl. "All day to-day I've felt ever so anxious about you. I know that, like poor Dr Jerrold, you are trying to discover and punish the spies of Germany.

Now, those people know it. They are as unscrupulous as they are vindictive, and I--well, I've been seriously wondering whether, knowing that you are their enemy, they may not endeavour to do you some grave harm."

"Harm!" laughed the young man. "Why, whatever makes you antic.i.p.ate such a thing, darling?"

"Well--I don't really know," was her reply. "Only to-day I've been thinking so much about it all--about Dr Jerrold's strange death, and of all you've lately told me--that I'm very apprehensive. Do take care of yourself, Jack dear, won't you--for my sake?"

"Of course I will," he said, with a smile. "But what terrible fate do you antic.i.p.ate for me? You don't really think that the Germans will try and murder me, do you?"

"Ah! You don't know what revenge they might not take upon you," the girl said as they stood together near the fire in the big, handsome room, his arm tenderly around her waist. "Remember that poor Dr Jerrold upset a good many of their plans, and that you helped him."

"Well, and if I did, I don't really antic.i.p.ate being a.s.sa.s.sinated," he answered, quite calmly.

"But the doctor died. Why?" asked the girl. "Could his death have been due to revenge, do you think?"

Jack Sainsbury was silent. It was not the first time that that vague and terrible suggestion had crossed his mind, yet he had never uttered a word to her regarding his suspicions.

"Jerome committed suicide," was his quiet, thoughtful reply.

"That's what the doctors said. But do you think he really did?" queried the girl.

Jack shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

"Ah! I see! You yourself are not quite convinced!" she said, looking him straight in the face.

"Well, Elise," he said after a brief silence, and with a forced laugh, "I really don't think I should worry. I can surely take care of myself.

Perhaps you would like me to carry a revolver? I'll do so, if it will content you."

"You can't be too careful, dear," she said earnestly, laying her slim fingers upon his arm. "Remember that they are the spies of the most barbarous race on earth and, in order to gain their ends, they'll stick at nothing."

"Not even at killing your humble and most devoted servant--eh?" laughed Jack. "Well, if it will relieve your mind I'll carry a pistol. I have an automatic Browning at home--a bit rusty, I fear."

"Then carry it with you always, dear.--I--" But she hesitated in her eagerness, and did not conclude her sentence.

In a second he realised that she had been on the point of speaking, of telling him something. Yet she had broken off just in time. That fact puzzled him considerably.

"Well," he asked, his serious gaze fixed upon those big blue eyes of his well-beloved, while her fair head rested upon his shoulder: "what has caused you these gloomy forebodings concerning myself, dearest? Tell me."

"Oh, nothing," she replied in a strange, nervous voice. "I suppose that I'm horribly silly, of course. But, knowing all that you have told me about the wonderful spy-system of Germany, I have now become gravely apprehensive regarding your safety."

Jack saw that she was endeavouring to conceal something. What knowledge had she gained? In an instant he grew eagerly interested. Yet he did not, at the moment, press her further.

"And you think that the fact of carrying a gun will be a protection to me, do you, little one? Well, most women believe that. Yet, as a matter of fact, firearms are very little protection. If a man is seriously marked down by an enemy, a whole army of detectives cannot save him. Think of the political a.s.sa.s.sinations, anarchist outrages, and the like. Police protection has usually proved futile."

"But you can take proper ordinary precautions," she suggested.

"And pray, dear, why do you ask me to take precautions?" he inquired.

Then, looking earnestly into her eyes, he added very gravely: "Something--or somebody--has put all these grim fears into your head.

Now, dearest, tell me the truth," he urged.

She made no response. Her eyes were downcast, and he saw that she hesitated. For what reason?