Gorman achieved very little by his second visit to the cave. He took with him several tools, a short axe, a screw-driver and a hammer. He forced open some of the packing-cases which were piled near the cistern. They were filled with steel bars of various sizes, steel wrought into various shapes and odd-looking coils of copper wire. Gorman knew little of engineering or mechanics. He was merely puzzled by what he saw. It seemed to him that von Moll had used the cave as a storehouse for uncompleted machines of a complicated kind. What the machines were he did not know. Why von Moll, acting no doubt by the Emperor’s orders, should have dumped them there was beyond guessing.
Though Gorman was disappointed he found life on Salissa pleasant enough. He was exceedingly comfortable, thanks to Smith’s devotion to duty. He had many long talks with Donovan, which he enjoyed, for Donovan was always amusing and stimulating. He saw a great deal of the Queen, helped her to make plans for the future of the island, listened when she talked about Phillips. There was a mixture of shyness with frank simplicity in the way she spoke about her lover which Gorman found very attractive. Sometimes he went out with Kalliope’s lover in the largest island boat and watched the casting of nets. Once or twice he tried to get into intimate conversation with Smith, hoping that the man, caught off his guard, might drop a hint that would give some clue to the meaning of the cisterns, the petrol, the machinery and the Emperor’s curious interest in the island. But Smith took shelter behind the manner of a good servant, the most impenetrable of all defences. Gorman never got anything out of him except a deferential “Yes, sir,” or, in reply to some leading question, “Don’t know, sir, I’m sure.” Or perhaps, “Indeed, sir!” in a tone of respectful surprise.
Gorman was at that time inclined to think that he had made a mistake in not going home on the Ida. Apart from the exciting movements of Irish affairs about which he could only speculate, he felt sure that it was in London, not on the island, that the most important developments of the Salissa mystery would take place. He wanted to know what Steinwitz was doing, and whether Konrad Karl was still enjoying his spendthrift holiday in Paris. He would have liked to be in a position to watch the fussy activities of Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Later on I was able to tell him something, not of Steinwitz or Konrad Karl, but about Sir Bartholomew. It was impossible to live in London during the latter part of July without perpetually bumping against Bland-Potterton. He was like the ball on a rapidly spun roulette board. He seemed to be flung about from place to place with extreme rapidity in an utterly irregular manner. It was impossible to guess where he would be or in what direction he would move. I came across him one day in Cockspur Street. He was signalling wildly for a taxi-cab. He grasped my arm with his left hand and shook it with frenzied vehemence.
“Just off to the Foreign Office,” he said. “Can’t wait to talk now. Haven’t a minute. See you later.”
There was no reason why he should have stopped to talk to me even if he had not been going to the Foreign Office. I should certainly not have tried to detain him. Bland-Potterton bores me. I did indeed see him later, though I certainly did not want to. It was at a reception, a gorgeous but uncomfortable affair in Ellesmere House. Bland-Potterton was in a corner with a highly decorated foreigner who looked like a stage brigand. I found out afterwards that he was the Megalian ambassador. Bland-Potterton was talking to him with intense earnestness.
Another day he dashed at me in the smoking-room of the club. I was half asleep at the moment and desired nothing in the world so much as to be let alone. But Bland-Potterton woke me by whispering in my ear. He might just as well have spoken in the ordinary way. There was only one other man in the room and he was quite asleep. Besides, Bland-Potterton’s whisper carries further than most men’s conversational voices.
“Have you,” he hissed, “any news from Gorman? A letter? A message? Anything?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t. Why the deuce should I? Is he gun-running, or threatening to vote against the Government, or likely to be arrested?”
“No, no, no. Nothing of that sort. Nothing to do with Ireland. It’s this unfortunate business with the Emperor. But I mustn’t say any more. The Embassies are nervous, you know.”