And all this time, for three-quarters of an hour or more, our two prisoners had been alone together in the aft cabin, where the tools and spare parts were stored. Neither I nor Danjuro had given them a further thought, and it was the one fatal mistake we made upon that morning of triumph.
Thumbwood had, however, been in to look at them once or twice, and had seen nothing disturbing. Certainly, when some of my men came to take them to the station, they were lying sullen in their bonds, and not saying a word to each other of any kind.
But by that time the mischief was doubtless done.
* * * * * *
Space begins to press upon me. There are still two strange and unforgettable scenes to add to this narrative, further tragedies to set down. The last scene of all, which I have called "The Epilogue," was not written for a year after the earlier part of this story, which is now published as a whole for the first time. Why this is so will become clear as you read on, if you care to follow me to the very end.
But as I would not weary you, I will only indicate the happenings during the rest of that day at Plymouth in the briefest possible fashion. I am impatient to bring the story up to the hour of eleven-thirty of the same night.
Immediately we were at rest on the placid waters of the sea-drome, Muir Lockhart, with a strong force of Air Police, came aboard. Constance and her maid were taken in a motor-boat to one of my patrol ships, which started with them for the Hounslow Aerodrome within half an hour of our arrival. We both of us thought it best that she should proceed to London immediately, and going by air in a Government ship, she would escape all annoyance and publicity.
All approach to the sea-drome was barred, and though the Hoe was crowded with spectators, none of them could approach anywhere near to us. When I had given Lockhart an outline of what had occurred, the two prisoners were taken over the pool with a strong guard, and run up in the private lift to the A.P. station, where there was a strong cell ready to receive them. Then I was free to show my colleague, himself an expert airman, the wonders of our capture.
I was doing this—we were in the pilot's cabin—when one of my men came in and said that a motor-launch had come alongside from the private air-yacht May Flower, which was moored not a hundred yards away. I had noticed, when descending, that a magnificent yacht was close by, but I did not identify it as Mr. Van Adams' ship. It appeared that he had been sleeping aboard for the last two or three nights, since he had flown down from London for the funeral, and was now alongside.
Van Adams, of course, was an exception to all ordinary rules, and in a minute he was shaking hands in the private saloon and betraying a most lively curiosity as to our adventures. I put Danjuro to satisfy him, and when we had discussed a bottle of Helzephron's champagne, I left a couple of trusted men to guard the ship, and went ashore. Danjuro returned to the May Flower with his patron.