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He Moved a Step Nearer the Steel Rail.
He Moved a Step Nearer the Steel Rail.
THE MEN WHO WROUGHT By RIDGWELL CULLUM Author of "The Night Riders," "The Way of the Strong," "The Law Breakers," etc. PHILADELPHIA GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1916, by George W. Jacobs & Company All rights reserved Printed in U. S. A. BY THE SAME AUTHOR The Golden Woman The Law-Breakers The Way of the Strong The Twins of Suffering Creek The Night-Riders The One-Way Trail The Trail of the Axe The Sheriff of Dyke Hole The Watchers of the Plains CONTENTS ILLUST
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CHAPTER I
CHAPTER I
"Amongst the many uncertainties which this deplorable, patched-up peace has brought us, there is, at least, one significant certainty, my boy. It's the inventor. He's buzzing about our heads like a fly in summer-time, and he's just about as—sticky." Sir Andrew Farlow sighed. His sigh was an expression of relief; relief at the thought that he and his son, dining together at Dorby Towers for the first time since the dissolution of Parliament had released the latter from his political duties, had a
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CHAPTER II
CHAPTER II
The peace of the night knocked vainly at the heart of the man as he moved along over the grass-grown cart track, which skirted those fields abutting on the pathway marking the broken line of the lofty Yorkshire cliffs. The warmth of the July air left him utterly forgetful of the light evening clothes in which he was clad, just as the grass-grown track failed to remind him that the shoes he wore had never been intended for country rambles. The soft sea breeze fanned his cheeks, and the bracing ai
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CHAPTER III
CHAPTER III
Ruxton Farlow's return home was even more preoccupied than had been his going. An entirely new sensation was stirring within him. Before, his thoughts had been flowing along the troubled channel of affairs, all of which bore solely upon the purpose of his life. Now their flow had been further confused by the addition of an emotion, which, under ordinary circumstances, might well have leavened the most gloomy forebodings. Instead, however, it was rather like an artist engaged on painting a pictur
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CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER IV
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
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CHAPTER V
CHAPTER V
That Ruxton Farlow was a creature of destiny rather than a man who wrought only through the force of his own self-guidance was extraordinarily apparent. The purpose of his life filled his whole being. It was all of him, a dim light in the mist and fog of the future, ever encouraging onwards, yet yielding to him no vision of the path by which it might be the more easily reached. It was his lot to flounder on, frequently stumbling and yawning as the conformation and obscurities of the road compell
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CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VI
He had known the mill all his life; at least he believed he had. He had gazed upon that awesome black ruin, keeping watch and ward over the wicked little cove below it, like some sentinel on guard over a dangerous criminal, with wide, childish eyes, and a mind full of terrified speculation. He had known it later, when, with boyish bravado, he had flouted the horrific stories of a superstitious countryside, and explored its barren, ruined recesses. He had known it still later, when, with manhood'
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CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VII
Brief as was the interval between leaving the treacherous cove and the moment when Ruxton Farlow found himself surrounded by the tasteful luxury of the saloon of the long, low, strange-looking craft waiting just outside to receive him, it was not without many thrilling experiences. To a man of less imagination the very few minutes in the petrol launch would have meant little more than a rather exciting experience. But for Ruxton they possessed a far deeper significance. Nor was the least the fee
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CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER VIII
A grey , northern day devoid of all sunshine; a forbidding, rock-bound coast lost in a depressing mist; a flat, oily sea, as threatening to the mariner as the mounting hillocks of storm-swept water; a dull sense of hopelessness prevailing upon the still air. All these things marked the approach to Borga; for Nature was in a repellent mood, a thing of repugnance, of distrust and fear. A long, low craft was approaching the gaping jaws which marked the entrance to the heart of the island, somewhere
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CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER IX
Prince Von Hertzwohl looked up from his bureau. He was sitting in his stateroom, which was of some considerable size, and opened out of the saloon. His ears had caught the sound of a hasty entrance of the latter. His luminous eyes were alert and questioning. The man was completely changed from the simple inventor who had told the story of his submersible to Sir Andrew Farlow and his son. There was a restless, nervous tension about him, altogether at variance with his customary calm. He leapt fro
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CHAPTER X
CHAPTER X
On the way back to the saloon a further truth began to dawn upon Ruxton. Nor did he lose a moment in challenging his host when they reached the luxurious apartment. "You have brought those cylinders away. May I ask why?" he enquired. The Prince had seated himself, and was in the act of lighting a cigar. He desisted, and held his case out towards his guest. Ruxton helped himself and waited. The other stared thoughtfully at the cigar which remained poised in his lean fingers. Then he raised his br
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CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XI
Sir Andrew had listened patiently. His had been the grave attitude of a man impressed beyond mere words of agreement or understanding. His reading glasses had been thrust aside. His grey head was inclined towards his clasped hands, and his broad chin found support upon them. His whole poise was of the closest attention. "It's like a—fairy-tale," he said at last as Ruxton's story came to an end, and the deep, calm tones of his voice died out. "Or a—nightmare?" "Ye-es." Sir Andrew swung round in h
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CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XII
The old fortress of Kuhlhafen stands a milestone on the path of Time. Its vast walls have endured and survived the ravages of a thousand storms driving in off the sea. Its gloomy might still rears itself silhouetted against the grey skies of the Baltic upon its lofty setting of wood-clad hills. Its dull, unlit eyes still gaze down upon the broad waters of the shallow, silted harbor from which it takes its name. And with it all it haunts the primitive mind of the simple fisher folk beneath its sh
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CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIII
The atmosphere of the little study, or library, or whatever it was called, in which Ruxton carried on the private work of his political calling, in the diminutive house in Smith Square, Westminster, was redolent with that delightful suggestion of the old world so dear to the collector's heart. Its owner was a collector by instinct and training. He had been brought up to the study of old-world art, and had learned to appreciate the beauties of all those delicate and priceless specimens which are
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CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XIV
Two men walked briskly up Baker Street in the direction of the Underground Station. At least, one of them walked briskly. The gait of the other were better described as hurried. He was obviously making an effort to keep up with his powerful, square-cut, vigorous companion. Many eyes were turned upon them as they passed by. It was the provocative air of the larger man, whose gait was more than arrogant. The lesser of the two was not oblivious to the attention. "It is almost in the nature of a sho
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CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XV
Von Salzinger was gross. He looked it. But he had not yet arrived at those years when the outward form loses its atmosphere of virile strength submerged beneath overwhelming adipose and a general bodily inertia. That would come as inevitably as reaction invariably follows upon the heels of excess when vitality passes its maximum. Von Salzinger was of original type, and beneath the shallow veneer of the civilizing process, in him was to be found of a certainty the hairy hands of the savage. It is
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CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVI
Busy days crowded upon Ruxton Farlow. The house in Smith Square only saw him at night-time, or at the political breakfasts which had become so great a fashion. The affairs of his portfolio moved automatically with but very little personal attention from him, and so he was left free to prosecute his own more secret plans, almost without interruption. Apart from the affairs at the great Dorby works, his chief effort was a campaign of proselytism amongst the few of great position in the nation's af
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CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVII
Johann Stryj had departed as silently and undemonstratively as he had come. The chief spy was a born master of his craft. The only matter in which Nature had been less kind to him in his fitness for the work he had imposed upon himself was in the slightly furtive restlessness of his eyes. Otherwise the ideal had been achieved. His whole air of simple inoffensiveness left nothing to be desired. Von Salzinger admitted these things to himself, in spite of the morose venom which the man's report upo
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CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XVIII
The appeal in Vita's voice, in her yearning, distressed eyes, when she demanded her lover's reassurance of her father's escape, was not without a powerful effect on the romantic chivalry which was so large a part of Ruxton's nature. It set every nerve in his body tingling to serve her. Then, too, the debt he owed to the Prince himself, in the name of his country, urged him. That night he had bought later editions of the paper, seeking further news which might throw light upon the matter, and pos
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CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XIX
The drawing-room at Redwithy Farm was bathed in the shadows of early autumn evening. A fire of blazing logs spluttered and crackled in the great open fireplace. Its ruddy light shed an atmosphere of mellow comfort and coziness over the entire aspect of the room. Under ordinary circumstances Vita would have revelled in the delight of these moments of a great new happiness in her beautiful home. She was ensconced in an armchair beside the fire which had doubtless, in years gone by, supported the s
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CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XX
The face that gazed out at the driving October rain was one whose expression of unrelieved misery and hopelessness might well have melted a heart of flint. The wide, grey eyes had lost their languorous melting delight, which had been replaced by one of driven desperation. Dark, unhealthy rings had sunk their way into the young surrounding flesh. They were the rings of sleeplessness, and an ominous indication of the mental attitude behind them. The oval of the cheeks had become pinched and pale,
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CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXI
Ruxton's return to town from Dorby was made by special train in the middle of the night. It had been inspired by an irresistible impulse, born of an apprehension which his great love for Vita inspired. Prince von Hertzwohl had only sheltered one night under the roof of Dorby Towers. Sir Andrew had been urgent that he should remain his guest indefinitely, feeling that the safety of an Englishman's home was the best of all havens for this large, simple-minded Pole. But Vita's father proved somethi
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CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXII
In the valley of Bar-Leighton the climatic pendulum had swung again. A radiant sort of Indian summer seemed to have definitely set in. Now the sun was shining, and fleecy clouds swept along the bosom of a brisk southeasterly breeze. But the sinister genius of the place remained unchanging. It would have been optimism of a superlative order to claim that Prince von Berger ever really changed. For those in contact with him it was impossible to believe him capable of warmth or feeling. Even Ludwig
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CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIII
A small group of people stood surveying the wreck of one of the great construction docks in the Dorby yards. Prominent among them were Sir Andrew Farlow and his son. They were standing beside a naval officer of considerable rank. A number of naval uniforms stood out from the rest of the civilians; but these were of lesser degree. The sky was heavily overcast. A light, penetrating drizzle of rain was falling. Somehow these things seemed to add to the sense of destruction prevailing. The corrugate
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CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXIV
Ruxton spent another long day and night travelling. He reached London and Smith Square in a fog, which by no means helped to lighten his mood. He visited Scotland Yard, where he spent an hour in close consultation, and when he departed thence for Buckinghamshire he was accompanied by a prominent officer. He spent several hours at Wednesford and Redwithy, and finally returned again to town. His movements were made with a complete disregard for himself. Weary? Depressed and worn out, he admitted t
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CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXV
Von Salzinger was in a bad mood. He was feeling the effects of close personal contact with the authority which he had been bred to acknowledge, to obey. In the abstract he admitted the right of it. In practice he had little enough complaint. But in personal contact with the administrators of it the tyranny became maddening. For once in his life he realized how far short of a free-acting, free-thinking being he really was, in spite of the considerable rank of Captain-General to which he had risen
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CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVI
It was the close of a long and busy day for both of them, and father and son, in the interim preceding dinner, under a bright moon, paced together the broad stone paths of the formal terrace gardens of Dorby Towers. For Ruxton the confined spaces of the house were suffocating. His nerves were on edge. His father, with the calm philosophy of his years, merely sought the fresh air which the work in his office denied him, even though it possessed the damp chill of an English autumn night. "Anybody
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CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVII
Vita stood up. The swift rise and fall of her bosom bespoke an emotion which found added reflection in the light of her beautiful grey eyes. Her attitude was tense. It was full of that suggestion of urgency which straining ears ever convey. She was listening. And every muscle of her fair body was tuned to the pitch of her nerves. Her eyes were upon the face of a small brass lantern clock. The figures on the dial were indistinct in the artificial light, but she read them with ease under the influ
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CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXVIII
Prince von Hertzwohl gazed about him. His tall figure was bowed. He was no longer clad in the working costume which had been his disguise for so many days in Dorby. His lean face was shaded beneath a wide, soft-brimmed hat which entirely concealed that wonderful forehead which had so impressed Ruxton. But the shaven cheeks added years to his age. Beneath his chin were displayed those fleshy cords which do not belong to anything up to the middle life. He certainly looked older than ever in the fo
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CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXIX
A sensation of dreadful pain swept through an eternity of obscurity, impenetrable to all but a subconscious emotion. Horror floated through a world unseen, unknown. Terror thrilled senses dead to all reality. An abyss yawned on every hand, a black abyss in which stirred, all unseen, a threat so overwhelming that the victim remained passive, defenceless; waiting, waiting for the final crushing torture. The blackness changed. It gave place to a deep, ruddy light. It was a light which inspired a se
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CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXX
The room was very quiet. A wintry sunbeam glanced in through the leaded casement and fell slanting across the floor, lighting up the occupied four-post bed. A uniformed nurse was occupied at a bureau which stood in the window-place, framed in the floral chintz hangings which seemed to suit so well the oaken panelling of the room, and the beams with which the ceiling was so powerfully groined. The doctor, a benevolent, grey-whiskered, cherub-eyed old man, who had cared for every patient at Dorby
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CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXI
The shock which electrified London was reminiscent of the shocks to which it was submitted in the early days of the war, when the "Yellow" press ran riot, and journalists dipped deeply into their reservoirs of superlatives to generate the current of sensation which should sell their papers. It was a misty afternoon, with an almost intangible yet saturating drizzle; a setting admirably fitting an evening newspaper thrill. Spirits were at a sufficiently low ebb for something of a screaming nature.
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