Winged Victory/Chapter 11

For a full minute after John Rogers had left them, husband and wife confronted each other in silence. Very slowly Delisle had replaced the empty tumbler on the table. He did not seek to replenish it, and the red flush died from his sunken cheeks, leaving him white and curiously old looking.

“I don't think I heard aright,” he said. “You care—with all your heart. Is that true, Eileen?”

She nodded.

“I care—now.”

“Eileen—if that were true—it isn't too late. I've been a mad fool. But I'd turn back—I'd make good. If you'd only understand I'd sell my soul for you.”

She shrank from the flickering passion in his eyes.

“It's you who don't understand, Oscar. When I first realized what you and I had done—how we had failed Fenton—I thought there was no atonement possible. Now I see some light in it all. He wanted his idea put into the service of his country. That will be done.”

He began to laugh, a high, wavering laugh of cynical anger.

“So you were thinking of Fenton? It's always Fenton, isn't it? Fenton, whom you almost hated—Fenton, who cheated your' father of wealth—and you of happiness. And now you love him! You've forgiven the dead—you wouldn't forgive the living. What have I done compared to Fenton?”

“You were his friend,” she interrupted. “Remember that—and that he died bravely.”

Again the unsteady, jarring laugh from his lips.

“That's what you think. Well, I could tell a tale I won't, though. Oh, no, I'll leave you your illusions. Cherish them by all means—but I'm going my own way. The monoplane's mine. I'm going to keep it. He shan't take everything from me—curse him!”

He refilled his glass unsteadily, and suddenly she came and laid her hand on his arm, her face lifted to his in eager pleading.

“Oscar—don't! For his sake and mine—don't! You were his friend; you were mine. Turn back now! Do what is honorable and just, and let us start again. Surely it's not too late.”

“No, it's not too late. Forget him!”

“I can't. I have tried. But the barrier is there—and it's strange—but the thought of him is with me always. It's as if he were present—as if any moment I might see him and hear his voice. Oscar, sometimes I think it is remorse in both of us. If we tried to atone—perhaps then there would be a chance of happiness. Give Fenton's name the glory of the work—give it to our son!”

“Forget him!” he repeated doggedly.

Her hand dropped to her side.

“I can't.”

“Then there's nothing more to be said.” He drained his glass to the dregs. “I shall go my way. Why should I consider a man who stands between my wife and me? Yes, I can read in your eyes what you are thinking. My way leads to the devil, I dare say. But who cares for that? I've played to win you—and if I've lost—well, I'll take what's left—fame and wealth—and anything else. It'll help me to forget.”

He lurched heavily toward the door, and then paused an instant and looked back at her. Behind the somber, morose passion that dulled his eyes there glowed a momentary hope, but she did not move, and he went out, closing the door roughly behind him.

It was already dusk as he crossed over to the shed. A storm was blowing up from the east, and against the darkness the lights from the high, irregularly built windows flashed with an ominous brightness. But the clang of the hammers had long since hushed to silence and, as Delisle entered, no one greeted him. He stood for an instant on the threshold, arrested even in the midst of his inflamed musings by the scene before him. The great monoplane lay under a single electric globe like some immense bird waiting the signal for flight, the wings spread, the strangely graceful head raised as if in tense expectation. But as yet the space for the engine was empty. John Rogers stood by the double seat, his hand resting on the wires, his head bent. He did not move as Delisle entered; only when the latter broke the silence with a curt laugh did he start and look up.

“Dreaming?”

“Perhaps—a little.”

“I didn't know men like you had dreams. Might one ask their subject?”

“I was thinking of the man who made this thing.”

“Of me?”

“No.”

The silence grew intense. Delisle steadied himself, his hand on one of the great levers.

“You'd better say what you mean, Rogers,” he said thickly.

“I was thinking that the man who invented this would be very proud to-night, and I was wondering if it is not possible that, unseen of us, he is standing here looking at his work and thanking God that, after all, it has been done.”

“Are you mad, Rogers? Of whom are you talking?”

“Of Fenton Villiers.”

Delisle started like a man who has received a sudden blow across the face. But he did not at once answer. He looked about him, searching the shadows in the distant corners and listening to the rising wind.

“What has Fenton Villiers to do with you?” he demanded, scarcely above his breath.

“A great deal. I have finished what he began.”

“The thing has gone to your head, man! I sent for you because I heard you were a clever mechanic and I wanted help in the mechanical details—but the idea is mine—was mine.”

“That's a lie and I can prove it!” Rogers turned sharply and confronted Delisle, but with lowered head so that the bearded half of his face was in shadow. “This is the body of the machine, but the soul is missing. Without the soul it is no more than a mass of useless iron. And I am the only one who knows how the soul is made.”

Delisle shrank back from the fierce intensity of the man's eyes.

“I paid you!” he stammered.

“I know. And I have done the work you paid me to do. I didn't much care then what happened—as long as the thing was done. I never asked for a reward or a share in the triumph that is coming to you. Now I have changed my mind.”

A wave of fury surged up in Delisle's eyes. But he answered, with a dangerous restraint:

“Now I understand. How much do you want?”

“Nothing. But, instead, you shall give the monoplane its inventor's name. And half of what the English government gives you you will settle on the inventor's son.”

“Are you mad?”

“Perfectly sane, Captain Delisle.”

“What is the inventor or the inventor's son to you?”

“I hardly need answer. Yet perhaps it would explain matters to you. I have a conscience, Captain Delisle—a curious thing for a battered hulk like myself to possess—and as I have pieced together the work of another man's brains, it has seemed to me that something of him has entered into me. I have shared his. hopes and his despair—I have suffered and rejoiced with him. It seems to me that he is here—with us—to-night!”

Delisle caught his breath painfully.

“You have mentioned Fenton Villiers by name. How did you come to know him?”

“I knew him—in my past life.”

“Where is he?”

“He is dead.”

Again the quick-drawn sigh—this time of relief. Delisle threw back his head and laughed.

“And he told you to come here and blackmail me?”

“You sent for me, Captain Delisle,” was the deliberate answer.

“That's true.” He was silent an instant. The wind had begun to rage against the eastern side of the shed, making the rafters groan beneath the fury of its attack. Involuntarily, Delisle drew himself together, shuddering. “If I refuse” he muttered.

“Then I shall leave to-morrow. The monoplane will never be finished.”

“And if I consented” He passed an unsteady hand over his forehead and tried to laugh. “Then perhaps Do you think your conscience and the dead would rest then?”

“Perhaps.”

“If the dead would only rest!” He shook himself, as if flinging off a paralyzing hand. “I consent!” he stammered.

“That's all I ask. To-morrow we will settle the agreement. In three weeks the monoplane will be finished. My work will have been done.” He turned quietly toward the door. “Good night, Captain Delisle!”

“Wait—no, don't go yet. Are you the devil, Rogers? You've frightened me. My nerve's shaken. I see and hear things everywhere. It's this confounded storm. What was that? Didn't you hear?”

“Some one knocked. Shall I see who it is?”

“Yes—be careful!”

John Rogers turned the key of the outer door. A swirl of wind rushed in, whistling through the slender skeleton of the machinery and for an instant driving out the light from the globe overhead. A man entered. He was poorly dressed and drenched by the first onslaught of the storm, but he held his head high, and the white electric light fell full on his rain-splashed face.

Rogers uttered a stifled exclamation and then turned away, his tight-clenched hand on the lever of the machine. Delisle did not move.

“Well?” he asked peremptorily. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“In the first place, shelter,” was the quiet answer. “In the second—a few moments' conversation with you, Captain Delisle.”

“That is impossible. I don't know who you are, and this is not the time or place”

“I've come a long way for the privilege, Captain Delisle. I beg you not to disappoint me.”

He spoke courteously, with the care and precision of a foreigner, but there was something decisive in his manner that defied refusal. Delisle glanced uneasily at the bowed figure of the man beside him.

“I can give you five minutes to state your business,” he said briefly.

“I wish to speak to you alone.”

Delisle laughed.

“This is ridiculous. I don't even know your name. You're a total stranger to me, and you come here at this time of night demanding a private interview. You might be the devil himself”

“For that very reason it would be wiser—safer for you to grant me my request, Captain Delisle.”

This time the warning note rang out distinctly. Delisle hesitated, and then, under the steady, significant eyes of the stranger, yielded like a man hypnotized.

“You can leave us, Rogers,” he said.

The man addressed turned without a word and limped toward the door, which he opened and quietly closed after him. Outside, the storm had increased in fury. A tempestuous wind drove scurrying shadows over the patch of light from a lower window, and in the restless movements of intangibilities Rogers seemed to distinguish something definite—a dark form pressed against the lower casement. Then came a flash of lightning, and in the succeeding obscurity all was lost. Rogers bent his head to the storm and strode across to the house opposite. As he did so, the dark shape came out from the shadow and for an instant stood out clearly against the light. Delisle saw it. Swift as had been its coming and going, its effect on him was that of a definite impression. He sprang forward and flung open the window.

“Who's there? Was that you, Rogers?”

The roar of the storm answered him. He leaned back against the casement, laughing uneasily at his own folly.

“I thought I saw some one—a man's head. I suppose it was Rogers on his way back. The hurricane makes one fanciful. Did you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“It must have been Rogers. What the devil did he stare in here for? Well, it's gone, whatever it was. Help yourself to the whisky over there and then be good enough to tell me what you want with me.”

The stranger accepted the invitation before answering. In all his movements there was a deliberation, the calm poise of conscious power, which harmonized but little with his appearance of destitution.

“I admit the inappropriateness of my visit,” he said as he lifted the glass to the light. “But I have been looking for you for some time, Captain Delisle, and I had no time to lose. Also, I was not in a position to use any other means of locomotion save that of my own legs, and the storm was against me. But at least all's well that ends well.”

“Have you come here to beg?” Delisle demanded roughly.

“No, but to make a bargain.”

“What's your name?”

“You are asking me a question with many answers. I have been called Rochefort—late of the French army. I have borne other names, but none of them will signify anything to you. For the present, then, let me be Rochefort, the friend and intimate partner of one Jabez Corodo, whom you may remember,”

Delisle started slightly.

“The name is familiar.”

“I thought so. You will remember it no doubt in connection with your father-in-law, Sir Richard Sinclair. Sir Richard made some unfortunate investments at his advice.”

“It is possible. What has that to do with you or me?”

“A great deal. Pray do not be impatient, Captain Delisle. I will endeavor to be as concise as possible. I have mentioned that Mr. Corodo was my partner. Mr. Corodo is dead. He was a man of many parts—of almost incredible versatility. Among other things, he was an expert on all engineering matters and was occasionally called in by the government to investigate inventions sent up for trial. It was in this way that he came to know of Lieutenant Villiers' monoplane.”

Instinctively Delisle glanced toward the great machine waiting—as it seemed—for its great hour of flight, and Rochefort smiled.

“You will understand that Mr. Corodo was interested. He realized the value of the idea, and, when Sir Richard Sinclair failed financially, he made Lieutenant Villiers an offer.”

“Well?”

“It was refused.”

“On what grounds?”

“The offer was made on behalf of the German government, and Lieutenant Villiers was what is called a patriot.”

Delisle threw back his head.

“He was right!” he said, with a curious flash of pride. “I'm glad.”

“Really? That is interesting. Well, my partner was disappointed. He was not a patriot. When he wanted money, he sold to the highest bidder. He was what is called an international spy, Captain Delisle, and a man of unusual character.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Corodo's character has no interest for me,” Delisle broke in contemptuously.

“I'm not so sure. My dead partner had a son—a very admirable young man of whom he had great hopes. It was his desire that this youth should have every chance in life. At that time he bore another name and held an honorable, unremunerative appointment in the secret service, His poverty stood in the way of his son's advancement. He disappeared. There was an accident at sea, and, as his body was never found, it was supposed that he had perished in that accident. Two things happened shortly afterward. A distant relative left my partner's son a large income, and a certain foreign country came into possession of facts of the highest importance. Are you beginning to understand?”

“What has all this to do with me?” Delisle returned hoarsely.

“You refuse to piece the story together? You are ungrateful, Captain Delisle.”

“For pity's sake, explain yourself!” was the fiercely impatient answer.

“Jabez Corodo was your father, Captain Delisle.”

“That is a lie!”

Yet the denial, by its very passion, betrayed itself. Oscar flung the window wider, letting in a draft of dank wind, and passed an unsteady hand across his forehead.

“That is a lie!” he repeated tonelessly.

“Deny it, by all means. I hold the proofs. I was in all Corodo's secrets. It was my business to follow your career—to keep him in touch with every phase of your life. I repeat that you are not grateful. He sold himself for you, Captain Delisle.”

There was no answer. Delisle stumbled across to the table and poured out a heavy dose of brandy from the decanter. When he turned again, his features were flushed, distorted with passion.

“No, I'm not grateful,” he said. “If my father were alive, I should curse him. I am a British officer and the son of a spy. The money I have lived on was gained at my country's expense. A word from you, and position and honor are gone”

“That word need not be spoken, Captain Delisle.”

The other laughed savagely.

“No. I understand. I'm to be squeezed dry before you crush me. How much do you want to begin with?”

“I want—that—and nothing else!” He indicated the half-completed machine.

For an instant the two men eyed each other. Delisle's glass had slipped from his unnerved hand.

“That!” he said thickly. “That's not mine—it's Fenton's. It's to bear his name—it's to go to the English government I have pledged myself.”

“To whom?”

“To the man who has worked with me—who has pieced it together—who has made it possible. He would betray me.”

“He could be bribed.”

“He was Fenton's friend.”

Rochefort made no answer. He went over to the monoplane and considered it for a moment in thoughtful silence. A faint, ironical smile quivered at the corners of his lips.

“Would you be sorry if it proved, after all, a failure?” he asked suddenly. “Is your friend's glory so dear to you?”

“It can't fail.”

“Are you sure? A Stradivarius in the hands of a child produces discords. Have you thought of that?”

“For God's sake, speak clearly! Make your bargain, Rochefort!”

The Frenchman turned at once. His manner had changed, had become coldly matter of fact.

“Your honor, your position, are in my hands,” he said. “I have no wish to ruin you—you are nothing to me. But I must have money. I know what this invention is worth and I can get our price for it, Let it be completed. Call it by any name you like, offer it to the English government, fly it your- self—and let it fail.”

“It's a damnable thing”

“Is it the worst thing you have done? And at the bottom of your soul wouldn't you be glad? Have you any reason to want to add a halo to Villiers' memory? Wouldn't it be something of a relief to tell others that, for all that you had done for his invention, it had failed utterly? And you have kept your bargain. And afterward—well, if others are more lucky with the machine, who'll know—who'll be able to call you to account?”

“But the dead” Delisle stammered.

“The dead won't bother you.”

At that moment the storm sank, leaving an interlude of breathless silence. The open window banged to with a jarring crash. Delisle started like a man roused from deep sleep. His eyes passed idly from Rochefort's white face to the shadowy corners of the great shed.

“I'm not free,” he said loudly and defiantly. “I can't help myself. I'm bound hand and foot. It's for my honor—her honor, Fenton's” Then he burst into sudden laughter. “I'm mad!” he cried. “I'd almost forgotten. Fenton's dead. What does it matter to him? Drink to the failure of the accursed thing—drink!”

Rochefort smiled and bowed. But he did not touch his full glass. He watched Delisle drain his to the dregs.