For sixty long, horrible seconds he stayed as still as death itself while he tried to locate the breathing of the intruder. His nerves were taut and screaming as he wriggled silently toward the wall. He tapped gently on the baseboard, then flattened himself out with his cheek hugging the rug.
Something swished above his head and thudded into the wall, where it vibrated back and forth angrily for a moment. Then the room was absolutely still again. He listened for the faintest sound, the scrape of a button or the exhaling of breath. When he could stand it no longer he began to edge along the floor toward the hallway, a fraction of an inch at a time. He knew the man across the room was waiting for another move, probably worming his way toward him.
A button of Bill's pajamas scraped the floor and he hugged the rug again. After a bit he continued. Beaching the ether side of-the room he began circling it inch by inch. His eyes began to become adjusted to the dark, and he could pick out various objects. None of them faintly resembled a man.
He pulled himself upright along the wall where he knew the light switch was located, and still there was no movement in the room. He cursed himself for not having stuck an automatic in his pocket before climbing out of the Lancer at Croydon. Switching on the light meant he would be a perfect target if the intruder had a gun. And it was beyond reason to hope that he didn't have a gun.
The cold, grey London dawn came creeping in the window while he stood there trying to make up his mind what to do. He was certain that the door to Sandy's room had not been opened, yet he was half afraid that it might have been. As the room became lighter and lighter he realized that in some mysterious manner the prowler had vanished. He switched on the light.
The room was empty.
His piercing scrutiny stopped when his eyes fell on the knife sticking in the wall, mute evidence that he had not been dreaming. He took two quick steps and threw the door of Sandy's room open. Sandy was peacefully sleeping.
Back in his own room he found that the door that led to the corridor was unlocked. He was positive that he had locked it before he lay down on the couch. He found the key on the floor and knew that it had been pushed out of the keyhole from the outside.
He searched the room for some further evidence of the intrusion but found nothing. The only memento was the wicked-looking knife sticking in the wall. He decided to leave it where it was until he had talked with Malbury again and it could be dusted for finger-prints. He knew that the waiter might easily have been the intruder. He wondered how he had managed to get out the door without making a sound.
After locking and bolting the door and window he climbed into the bed. He was comparatively safe for the time being.
It was broad daylight when the peal of a telephone bell awakened him. The clerk announced the Duke of Malbury calling.
“Please send him up,” Bill said, adding, “And give me room service.”
He ordered a pot of coffee and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face and comb his hair. He was hoping desperately that Malbury had turned up something into which he could set his teeth. He was beginning to blame himself for not having taken more drastic action the night before. If Malbury hadn't uncovered something that would lead him to the Saver of Souls, the man would be able to escape entirely.
And Bill knew that if he told his story without proof at this late date he would be laughed off the face of the earth.
IX—“LEAVE ENGLAND!”
BILL BABNES threw a dressing robe over his pajamas and answered the knock on his door. Outside stood a uniformed bellhop.
“The Duke of Malbury, sir,” the boy said and turned away as the dim figure behind him stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
The man who stood there looked more like a duke than the Duke of Malbury. But he was not the duke. He was a pleasant-faced man with iron-grey hair and a strong face tanned by sun and wind. His pale eyes were twinkling as he watched Bill's astonishment.
“You——” Bill began.
The man entered the room and threw his light-grey fedora and gloves on a chair and opened his light fall coat.
“No,” he said, “I'm not the Duke of Malbury. But he told me to use his name. He said you might not admit me unless I did. It's a nice morning, isn't it?”
“Yes,” Bill said grimly. “It's a nice morning. And who the hell are you?”
“My name is Aird, Mr. Barnes,” the man said, and a pleasant smile played on his lips as he held out his hand. “I'm sorry to have walked in on you this way, impersonating the Duke of Malbury. When I saw your astonishment I decided I'd better get into the room and close the door before you threw me out. I'm with the Air Ministry. I've spent half the night talking with Malbury and Lord Hereburn. When we came to a decision they asked me to come and talk to you.”
“But why didn't Malbury come?” Bill asked.
“We decided the whole thing should be handled on a strictly formal basis,” Aird said evenly. “Malbury was of the opinion, because of the friendship that exists between you, that he could not present our decision to you fairly. Malbury was entirely on your side, Barnes, against Lord Hereburn and myself. He asked me to convey his best wishes to you and wanted me to tell you that he would write to you and see you at Barnes Field, Long Island, very soon.”
“Malbury isn't going to see me again?” Bill gasped.
“No,” Aird said. “We are of the opinion, Mr. Barnes, that the sooner you get back to the States and forget this thing the better off things will be for everyone.”
“Forget it!” Bill shouted, and he could feel the blood beating against his temples. “Like hell I'll forget it!”
“Perhaps I put that wrong,” Aird said. “I meant forget it as far as other people are concerned. We know you can't forget what you saw but you can keep it to yourself and muzzle young Sanders.”
“Listen,” Bill said desperately. “If I'm not mistaken you are Sir James Aird with D. S. C. and so forth after your name. You're known around the world in aviation circles.”
“That's right.” Aird said. “I know this is a frightful blow to you, Barnes. But the thing must be kept quiet.”
“You mean,” Bill said, “you're going to let those murderers get away with it? Let them destroy a ship worth nearly a million dollars and wipe out thirty or forty people? Why, it's a criminal action on your part. You'll become an accessory after the fact. You'll be as guilty as they are.”
“Take it easy, Barnes,” Aird said persuasively. “Calm down. There are times when even nations must condone such things. Here is the situation: We are of the opinion that this man you call the Saver of Souls had nothing to do with the destruction of the Memphis. We——”
“Nuts!” Bill exploded, “to use a vulgar expression. I have engaged that man three times in the air and I know his tactics. You are treating me as though I was a child. Don't you suppose I know——”
“That particular trick by which you identified the man to Malbury is an old one, Barnes,” Aird interrupted. “I first used it twenty-two years ago when I was a lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps. I learned it from a famous German ace. So, you see, you have nothing to establish your identity of the man. Besides, you don't know who he is.”
“That's what we've got to find out,” Bill said. “That man has been in my hair long enough. I'll find him myself it you won't help me.”
“No,” Aird said firmly, “you won't. And I'll tell you why. England and the United States are not the only nations that are flying the Atlantic with passengers and mail and cargo. Remember that France, Germany and Italy are doing the same thing. England and the United States have the jump on them with larger and better planes. We have also made more thorough surveys. Doesn't it occur to you that, possibly, one of several companies in each of those countries might be anxious to present Transatlantic from becoming the premier carrier across the Atlantic? Suppose we go nosing into this thing and find that, with the situation as delicate as it is today in Europe, one of them is guilty? What will it mean if it is released to the public? Only one thing. War!”