“Sounds logical.”
“Over the top—from the plains on one side to the plains on the other.... Who was the first man that did it? You’d like to know.” He lowered his voice confidentially and said in a stage whisper, “You’ll have to ask somebody else.”
Potter knew who was the first man to fly over the Alps. There was little about the history and development of the aeroplane that he did not know. He remembered how the newspapers had heralded that feat and the name of the man who had accomplished it. The man had been a German, an officer; he had been decorated for it by the Kaiser himself. The name of the aviator was Lieutenant Adolf von Arnheim.
Potter was excited. Was it a discovery? His suspicions of Cantor were reawakened, made vivid. He fancied he now had real basis for suspicion, for if his intelligence were not at fault the man had intimated in his tipsy way that he had topped the Alps in an aeroplane, had even seemed to verge upon the boast that it was he who had first accomplished that feat. Potter reviewed the conversation, weighed and valued each word. Did his desire to believe the thing make it appear to be true?... He thought not. He believed he had put a warranted conclusion upon what he had heard, and that Cantor in his bibulous state had been upon the verge of making a revelation.... From that point reasoning walked in a straight path. Either Cantor was lying boastfully or he was the first man to surmount the Alps. If he were the first, then his name was not Cantor, but Adolf von Arnheim, and he was an officer in the Imperial German army!
Potter argued with himself, presented the evidence to himself again and again, and scrutinized with what fairness and calmness was possible. Clearly Cantor had an unusual knowledge of aeronautics, the knowledge which only experience could have given—experience of the most profound and particular study. Cantor did not seem a man likely to gain such knowledge from poring over a text-book.... If, then, Potter accepted the conclusion that Cantor was an aviator, the other conclusion was not so grotesquely remote. It crystallized his suspicion into certainty—a certainty that Cantor deserved scrutiny.
Either the man was a boastful, tipsy liar or he was Lieutenant Adolf von Arnheim, whose tight lips had been betrayed by the fumes of wine.... If he were von Arnheim, then he was a German, an officer—and a spy!
Here were such suspicions as must be put to the test, such conclusions as did not admit of delay in their verification.
The matter spread out before Potter with sinister ramifications. Fact fitted into fact. One of the facts was young Matthews’s vanished aeroplane. Granting that Cantor was a spy and one of Germany’s most skilful men of the air, then the aeroplane would be in his thoughts as a means to bring about his campaign of destruction. In the hands of such a man an aeroplane would be frightfully effective.... Potter’s mind leaped past the basis for his deductions. If Cantor were von Arnheim, then Cantor had stolen Matthews’s aeroplane, and Cantor intended to use it to Germany’s advantage. Germany had sent him there for the purpose.
But suspicion, individual certainty, were futile. Potter had to know. He must identify Cantor as von Arnheim past all dispute, and he must do so quickly, without arousing Cantor’s suspicion.... Cantor unsuspicious was a menace; Cantor with suspicions aroused would be swift-striking lightning. He might not be ready to launch his catastrophe, but let him suspect that he was watched or under investigation and he would act swiftly, terribly.
The last course had been served, the entertainment on the miniature stage was reaching a climax of unclothed vivacity, the room was as full of smoke as the heads of La Mothe’s guests were with the lilting voices of the wine. Excitement had been aroused and demanded to be satisfied. To those young men excitement wore two faces, girls and gambling, and gambling drew the vote.