“He was in terrible agony—poor fellow,” Jack remarked.
“No doubt, no doubt. But the drug would, of course, account for that.”
“Then, in the light of your expert medical knowledge, you don’t think that his death was a mysterious one?” Jack queried.
“No, I don’t say that at all,” was the reply of the busy man, who was working night and day among the wounded in the hospitals. “I merely say that Jerrold was poisoned—and probably by his own hand. That’s all.”
“You say ‘probably,’” remarked Trustram. “Could that man, Rodwell, have had anything to do with it do you think?”
“My dear Mr Trustram, how can we possibly tell?” asked Sir Houston. “What real evidence have we got? None.”
“And so clever are our enemies that we are not likely ever to get any, I believe,” was Trustram’s hard reply. “I only know what has happened to our plans for the defeat of the German Fleet. Is it really possible that this Lewin Rodwell, one of the most popular men in England, is a German agent?”
“If you dared to say so, the whole country would rise and kill you with ridicule,” remarked Jack Sainsbury. “Once the British public establishes a man as a patriot, their belief in him remains unshaken to the very end. This war is a war where spies and spying, treachery and double-dealing, play a far bigger part than the world ever dreams. Jerrold always declared to me that there were German spies in every department of the State, just as there are in France, in Russia, and in Italy. No secret of any of the European States is a secret from the central spy-bureau in Berlin.”
“Jerrold knew that. He set out sacrificing body and soul—nay, his very life—to assist our Intelligence Department,” Trustram remarked.
“I know,” said Jack. “They were foolishly jealous of his knowledge—jealous of the facts he had gathered during his wanderings up and down Germany, and jealous of the sources of information. They pretended a certain friendliness towards him, of course, but, as you know, the khaki cult is never in unison with the civilian. Jerrold did his duty—did it splendidly, as a true Englishman should. His work will live as a record. Seven years ago he commenced, at a time when the money-grubbing, ostrich-like section of the public—bamboozled by politicians who pretended not to know, yet who knew too well, and who told us there would be no war—not in our time—were content in amassing wealth. What did they care for the country’s future, as long as they drew big dividends? Jerrold foresaw the great Teutonic plot against civilisation, and was not afraid to point to it. What did he get for his pains? Ridicule, derision, and aspersions that his mind was deranged, and that he was a mere romancer. Well, to-day he’s dead, and we can only judge him by his works.”