The Bomb-Makers

by William Le Queux

and from the fastenings tothe deadly attache-cases, and--as it was afterwards proved--only just intime to save herself, the building, and its mass of machinery from totaldestruction.

  Meanwhile, Kennedy had overtaken the man Cole, and closed desperatelywith him, both of them rolling into the mud.

  Just as Ella was running towards them a pistol-shot rang out.

  The fellow had drawn a revolver and in desperation had tried to shoothis captor, but instead, in Kennedy's strong grip, his hand was turnedtowards himself, and the bullet had struck his own face, entering hisbrain.

  In a few seconds the man Cole lay there dead.

  Was it any wonder that the Press made no mention of the affair?

  CHAPTER SIX.

  THE SILENT DEATH.

  In the yellow sunshine of a bright and cloudless autumn afternoon, EllaDrost descended from her motor-cycle at a remote spot where four roadscrossed at a place called Pittsgate, about a mile and a half out fromGoudhurst, in Kent, having travelled from London by way of TunbridgeWells.

  In leather cap, leggings, mackintosh, and leather belt she presented acharming type of the healthy English sports-girl. Indeed, in that verygarb one could buy picture postcards of her all over the kingdom, thosewho purchased them little dreaming that Stella Steele, who had for somany nights been applauded by the khaki crowds in the theatre, where shemerrily danced in the revue "Half a Moment!" was the daughter of oldTheodore Drost, the sworn enemy of Great Britain, the man who had for solong succeeded in misleading the alien authorities into the belief thathe was a pious pastor of the Dutch Church.

  Certainly the man who posed as an ex-missionary from Sumatra, and whowore the shabby, broad-brimmed clerical hat and horn-rimmed glasses, hadnever once been suspected of treasonable acts, save by his daughter Ellaand Seymour Kennedy.

  It was to meet Kennedy that Ella had motored down from London that day.The roads were rather bad, and both machine and rider were splashed withmud. Yet for that she cared nothing. Her mind was too full of theinvestigations upon which they were engaged.

  She took out a large scale map, unfolded it, and studied it carefully,apparently tracing a route with her finger. Then glancing at herwristlet-watch, she looked eagerly down the long, straight road upon herleft--the road which led up from Eastbourne, through Mayfield andWadhurst.

  Nobody was in sight, therefore she consoled herself with a cigarettewhich she took from her case, and again studied her map until, at last,she suddenly heard the pop-pop-pop of a motor-cycle approaching and sawSeymour, his body bent over the handles, coming up the hill at arattling pace.

  In a few minutes he had pulled up, and, taking her in his arms, kissedher fondly, expressing regret if he were late.

  "Eastbourne is further off than I expected, darling," he added. "Well?"he asked eagerly.

  "Nothing particular has happened since we parted on Thursday," repliedthe girl. "Father has been several times to see Mr Horton inWandsworth, and last night dined with Mr Harberton in Park Lane."

  "Ah! What would the public think if they knew that Count Ernst vonOrtmann, who pulls the fingers of the Hidden Hand in our midst, HenryHarberton of Park Lane, and Mr Horton of Wandsworth, were one and thesame person, eh?" exclaimed the man, who, though not in uniform,revealed his profession by his bearing.

  "One day it will be known, dear," said the girl. "And then there willbe an end to my father. The Count will believe that my father hasbetrayed him."

  "Why do you anticipate that?"

  "Because only the night before last, when Ortmann called, I overheardhim remark to my father that he was the only person who knew his secret,and warning him against any indiscretion, and of the fate which Germanywould most certainly meet out to him if any _contretemps_ occurred."

  "Yes," remarked the air-pilot reflectively. "I suppose that if theauthorities really did arrest the inoffensive and popular Mr Harberton,the latter would, no doubt, revenge himself most bitterly upon yourfather."

  "Of that I'm perfectly certain, dear. Often I am tempted to relinquishmy efforts to combat the evil they try to work against England, and yetthe English are my own people--and also yours."

  "You're a thorough brick, Ella. There's not a girl in all the kingdomwho has run greater risks than your dear self, or been more devoted tothe British cause. Why, a dozen times you've walked fearlessly intodanger, when you might have been blown to atoms by their infernalbombs."

  "No, no," she laughed. "Don't discuss it here. I've only done what anyother girl in my place would have done. Come," she added. "Let's geton and carry out the plan we arranged."

  "Right-ho!" he replied. "That's the road," he added, pointing straightbefore him. "According to the map, there's a wood a little way up,where the road forks. We take the left road, skirt another wood past afarm called Danemore, then over a brook, and it's the first house wecome to on the right--with another wood close behind it."

  "Very well," answered the girl. "You'll have a breakdown close to thehouse--eh?"

  "That's the arrangement," he laughed, and next minute he was runningbeside his machine, and was soon away, followed by his mud-bespatteredwell-beloved.

  Off they both sped, first down a steep slope, and then graduallymounting through a thick wood where the brown leaves were floating downupon the chilly wind. They passed the farm Kennedy had indicated,crossed the brook by a bumpy, moss-grown bridge, and suddenly the manthrew up his hand as a signal that he was pulling-up, and, slowing down,alighted, while his engine gave forth a report like a pistol-shot.

  Ella, too, dismounted, and saw they were before a good-sized, well-keptfarmhouse, which stood a short distance back from the road, surroundedby long red-brick outbuildings.

  The report had brought out an old farm-hand--a white-bearded old fellow,who was scanning them inquisitively.

  Both Ella and her lover were engaged in intently examining the latter'smachine, looking very grave, and exchanging exclamations of despair.Kennedy opened a bag of tools and, with a cigarette in his mouth,commenced an imaginary repair, with one eye upon the adjacent house.This lasted for about a quarter-of-an-hour. In the meantime a woman,evidently the farmer's wife, had come out to view the strangers, and hadreturned indoors.

  "I think it's now about time we might go in," the air-pilot whispered tohis companion, whereupon both of them entered the gate and passed up therutty drive to the house.

  "I wonder if you could lend me a heavy hammer?" asked the motor-cyclistin distress of the pleasant, middle-aged woman who opened the door.

  "Why, certainly, sir. Would the coal-hammer do?" she asked.

  "Fine!" was the man's reply. "I'm so sorry to trouble you, but I'vebroken down, and I'm on my way to London."

  "I'm very sorry, sir," exclaimed the woman, who fetched a heavy hammerfrom her kitchen. "Would the young lady care to come in and wait?"

  "Oh, thanks. It's awfully good of you," said Ella. "The fact is I am alittle fagged, and if I may sit down I shall be so grateful."

  "Certainly, miss. Just come in both of you for a moment," and she ledthe way into a homely well-furnished room with a great open hearth wherebig logs were burning with a pleasant smell of smouldering beech.

  "What a comfortable room you have here!" Kennedy remarked, looking atthe thick Turkey carpet upon the floor, and the carved writing-table inthe window.

  "Yes, sir. This is a model dairy-farm. It belongs to MrAnderson-James, who lives in Tunbridge Wells, and who comes here forweek-ends sometimes, and for the shooting. I expect him here to-night.My husband farms for him, and I look after the place as housekeeper."

  "A model farm!" exclaimed Ella. "Oh! I'd so much like to see it. Iwonder if your husband would allow me?"

  "He'd be most delighted, miss."

  "Stevenson is my name, and this is my friend Mr Kershaw," Ella said,introducing herself.

  "My name is Dennis," replied the comely farmer's wife with a pleasantsmile. "This is called Furze Down Farm, and Mr Anderson-James is asolicitor in Tunbr
idge Wells. So now you know all about us," and thewoman, in her big white apron, laughed merrily.

  Kennedy and the girl exchanged glances.

  "Well," he said, "I'll go out and try to put the machine right. Itwon't take very long, I hope. If I can't--well, we must go back bytrain. Where's the nearest station, Mrs Dennis?"

  "Well--Paddock Wood is about two miles," was her reply. "If you can'tget your motor right my husband will put it into a cart and drive youover there. It's the direct line to London."

  "Thanks so much," he said, and went out, leaving Ella to rest in thecosy, well-furnished