CHAPTER XXI—THE ARREST
The cheerful glow was fading from the sky when Don and Bobby Dunlap started out in quest of mild adventure.
The boys walked leisurely—in fact so leisurely that when Don Hale had his first glimpse of the three majestic oaks which concealed the old farmhouse from view, Venus, the evening star, was making its sparkling presence known in the bluish-gray firmament.
“See here, Donny,” almost whispered Bobby, “I don’t think we ought to make this a conventional visit. In our present capacity as detectives I feel that we’re justified in using any means at all to trap this old codger. Let’s steal up and do a little spying ourselves.”
“Just the scheme,” approved Don.
The two started ahead.
The dreary, deserted aspect of the surroundings, the distant booming of the guns and the nature of the expedition all combined to produce a tingling sensation in Don Hale’s nerves.
Now they were approaching the great trees, and the boy caught his first glimpse of the old dilapidated dwelling. In the dim shadows of the end of day, with a mystery hovering over it, it assumed in his eyes a weird and sinister appearance. The gables and chimneys were silhouetted crisply against the translucent tones of the ever-darkening sky. Don’s eyes roved over the windows, each a dull and lifeless patch of dark. Everything gave the impression of utter desolation.
“I don’t believe the mysterious peasant can be around just now,” he murmured. “And I reckon Bobby’s idea in regard to Jason Hamlin is altogether wrong.”
Skirting around the old oaks, the two reached an open stretch. However, there were masses of shrubbery beyond, affording excellent places of concealment; so, after a moment’s reflection, Don and Bobby continued straight along, and presently found themselves in the midst of the dense shadows not far from the entrance to the house.
A few minutes passed, and Don began to feel that such a vigil around a deserted house had in it something of the absurd and ridiculous.
“Bobby——” he began.
“Sh-h-h-h!” whispered Bobby.
Then silence between the two ensued.
And in all probability it would have remained unbroken for some time but for the sound of human voices suddenly coming from the house. They were raised, as though the speakers had become engaged in a heated argument.
The watchers were fairly electrified.
“Aha! What did I tell you!” blurted out Bobby, forgetting caution in his eagerness and excitement. “I know those voices. They belong to Hamlin and the spy.”
The altercation grew louder and more turbulent, then quieted down, until, finally, the quietude was as complete as before.
“I wonder what it all means!” murmured Don. “The mystery deepens. Ah! Things seem to be developing fast.”
Cautiously, he stepped over to Peur Jamais’ side. “What’s the next move in the game, Bobby?” he inquired, sotto voce—“the point-of-the-pistol act?”
“Keep still!” commanded Bobby, fiercely. “I’m trying to hear what they have to say. Did you catch any of the words?”
“Not one,” answered Don. Then, with a muttered exclamation indicative of extreme surprise and annoyance, he faced about, nudged Bobby in the ribs, and exclaimed in a low, suppressed tone: “As I live, some one is coming along the road. It won’t do to stay here. We’ll be seen.”
“And if we get around on the other side we’ll most likely be observed by the chaps in the house,” burst out Peur Jamais. “Who in the world could have expected anything like this? By George! It must be a veritable spies’ retreat.”
Somewhat precipitously, Bobby began to move around the vegetation, and Don joined him a moment later on the opposite side.
Peering between the leaves, the latter could soon make out a shadowy form approaching. But the light was too dim for him to see whether the man was civilian or soldier. The boy’s interest was aroused to the highest pitch.
What could this man’s errand be? Evidently he must know the mysterious peasant and be familiar with the grounds.
“Curious! Curious!” muttered Don.
Expectantly—anxiously, he waited until the man had passed, then began retracing his steps, with Bobby close at his heels.
When he had resumed his former position, the boy, gazing over the top of the branches and leaves, was just in time to observe the man disappear in the dense shadows of the old farmhouse.
“Now what do you think of all this?” almost stuttered Bobby. “Oh, boy, but I feel kind of sorry for Jasy, though. This night’s work may get him into a whole pile of trouble.”
He was evidently going to add something more, but the sound of voices again stopped him. They were no longer raised as if in anger, yet, nevertheless, the conversation was evidently being carried on with the greatest seriousness.
And just about this time the two disciples of Sherlock Holmes saw a very dim light appear in one of the windows of the first floor, which, flashing in an erratic fashion, rapidly grew stronger, as though some one were bringing a lamp into the room.
Very soon the last vestige of day had disappeared, and overhead the stars and constellations were shining and twinkling with that wonderful brilliancy which they only possess when viewed far from smoke-filled towns. The boys no longer feared discovery. Night, with all its mystery, all its weirdness and majesty, was upon them, and though his fellow pilot was only a few yards away Don could no longer distinguish his form.
Easy in mind, therefore, they were able to give their undivided attention to the house. Now and again the light was blotted out, as figures momentarily passed in front. It was all very interesting, invoking in the mind thoughts of plots, of mysteries and of the machinations of spies.
“If we could only hear what they are saying,” groaned Bobby.
“I know a way,” declared Don.
“How?”
“I’m going to crawl right up beneath the window and listen.”
“Bravo, Donny! I’m with you there.”
Carefully as the two proceeded, it was impossible, in the darkness, to avoid making some noise; and each time both involuntarily halted in their tracks, half expecting to hear some one come rushing out of the house to investigate.
“Great Scott!”
The young combat pilot could not repress this exclamation, and, at the same instant, he heard a low whistle coming from the unseen Bobby close at hand.
Both had been caused by a peculiar action of one of the occupants of the room. Lamp in hand, he had approached the window, and, thrusting the feeble light outside, moved it up and down and sideways several times.
Mystified—puzzled, Don Hale felt that any further advance under the peculiar circumstances would be entirely too risky, and he was about to whisper this opinion to Bobby when a very faint sound from the rear caused him to turn quickly. A peculiar tingling sensation shot through him. Yet he could not quite explain the reason why. What was it he had heard?—a footfall? Or, in the excitement, had his imagination been tricked by the rustling of the vegetation?
In the darkness and mystery of the night the unseen often assumes in the imagination formidable proportions, carrying with it curious, undefinable fears.
And while Don Hale stood there, irresolute, his ears distinctly caught the sound of footsteps. Then followed a sharp, metallic click.
A stream of whitish light was fantastically streaking across the ground toward the boys.
An involuntary exclamation escaped Don’s lips. He felt himself almost shivering.
But a few paces away stood a man. And, clearly, the electric torch which he carried was seeking them out. What was the meaning of it all? How had they been so unerringly tracked?
Nearer and nearer came the brilliant white rays; then leaving the ground they shot upward, wavered forth and back erratically and presently fell squarely upon his face.
“Make no move, Messieurs!” exclaimed a strong, firm voice. “You are under arrest!”
“Under arrest!” gasped Don, literally astounded. “Who—who are you?”
“I don’t—I don’t understand!” quavered Bobby Dunlap. Rather feebly, sepulchrally he echoed Don Hale’s query: “Who are you?”
The white light suddenly described a circle in the air, and flashed for one brief, solitary instant, upon a silver shield. The man was holding his coat open, thus allowing it to be seen.
“What—what does this mean?” stuttered Peur Jamais, while Don Hale, more surprised, more nonplused than he had ever been in his life, vainly strove to see the features of the mysterious person before them.
“It means that, as a member of the French secret service, I am carrying out my orders,” came the astonishing rejoinder. “Let me repeat: you are under arrest.”
“But why? What for?” almost exploded Bobby, who had found his voice and nerve. “You have made some extraordinary mistake. Aha! Now I think I know what it means—you’ve got the wrong people, that’s it. Those you are seeking are in that house,—in that house, do you understand! Quick, now, before they get away.”
To further increase Bobby’s agitated and disturbed state of mind the man uttered a gruff laugh, following this with a loud whistle.
Almost instantly, as if in answer, footsteps sounded, and, on turning quickly, Don and Bobby saw three men just leaving the house; the beams from a swinging lantern carried by the foremost now and then throwing weird splotches of light upon their forms, one instant bringing them out in sharp relief, the next allowing the darkness to again gather them in its folds.
“It’s all utterly beyond me,” muttered Don Hale, as he viewed the strange little procession approaching.
The man with the lantern was the mysterious peasant. And, strangely enough, he showed no more surprise at finding the two American aviators so close to his door than if such a visit were the most ordinary and commonplace thing in the world. One of those accompanying him was Jason Hamlin; the other the boys had never seen before.
Jason Hamlin was the first to speak.
“And so we meet under rather peculiar circumstances!” he remarked, harshly. “Let me say, Peur Jamais, that——”
“Let me say something first,” interrupted Bobby, savagely. “Do you know what he tells us?”—he jerked his finger in the direction of the man with the electric torch—“that we are under arrest.”
“So am I,” exclaimed Hamlin, in a voice which shook with suppressed anger.
“You, too, under arrest!” gasped Don. “By Jove, this is certainly a weird night!”
“And how about that chap parading around in a peasant’s blouse and wooden shoes?” cried Peur Jamais. “If any one ought to be arrested he’s the one.” He turned to the secret service man. “I demand that you take him into custody. He’s an impostor—a—a——”
“Softly—softly, my young friend,” broke in the mysterious peasant. “I deeply regret that an unpleasant duty had fallen to my lot, particularly as our country has every reason to be grateful to America.”
He threw open his thin blue blouse, at the same instant raising his lantern. And as the yellow light shone on another shield precisely similar to the one which adorned the breast of the other man, both Don Hale and Bobby Dunlap gave voice to exclamations of the greatest surprise and wonderment.
“So you, too, belong to the secret service!” cried Don.
“Can—can you beat it!” came from Bobby, weakly.
“I think it would be a rather hard job,” broke in Jason Hamlin. “And——”
He was interrupted by the third man, who had been a silent witness to the proceeding.
“Let me put in a word,” he exclaimed, authoritatively. “I also belong to the secret service; and I wish to say to you young Americans that you are at liberty to return to the villa—the headquarters of the Lafayette Escadrille. Under no circumstances, however, are you to leave it until this affair has been entirely cleared up. I and my camarades are not here to answer questions. Your captain has already been notified. Remember, you are technically prisoners. This may seem harsh, ungrateful, and unappreciative perhaps of the work you have done for France, but the law knows no sentiment; it is cold and pitiless. Now you may go.” Addressing his compatriots, he added: “Come, Messieurs.”
Thereupon the three secret service men, with words of adieu, turned toward the house.
“I never was so angry, so wilted with surprise and disgust in the whole course of my life!” fumed Bobby Dunlap. “Not here to answer questions, eh! Never even had the politeness to say why we were pinched. It’s an outrage—that’s what it is!”
“Prisoners, eh!” remarked Don, with a dry laugh.
“And the comedy has to have still another act!” broke in Jason Hamlin, ironically. “You are right, Bobby: it is an outrage. But what you mean is not exactly what I mean.”
And, with this enigmatic remark, the aviator started to make his way toward the road. The two other “prisoners” followed.