In a few minutes he had pulled up, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her fondly, expressing regret if he were late.
“Eastbourne is further off than I expected, darling,” he added. “Well?” he asked eagerly.
“Nothing particular has happened since we parted on Thursday,” replied the girl. “Father has been several times to see Mr Horton in Wandsworth, and last night dined with Mr Harberton in Park Lane.”
“Ah! What would the public think if they knew that Count Ernst von Ortmann, who pulls the fingers of the Hidden Hand in our midst, Henry Harberton of Park Lane, and Mr Horton of Wandsworth, were one and the same person, eh?” exclaimed the man, who, though not in uniform, revealed his profession by his bearing.
“One day it will be known, dear,” said the girl. “And then there will be an end to my father. The Count will believe that my father has betrayed him.”
“Why do you anticipate that?”
“Because only the night before last, when Ortmann called, I overheard him remark to my father that he was the only person who knew his secret, and warning him against any indiscretion, and of the fate which Germany would most certainly meet out to him if any contretemps occurred.”
“Yes,” remarked the air-pilot reflectively. “I suppose that if the authorities really did arrest the inoffensive and popular Mr Harberton, the latter would, no doubt, revenge himself most bitterly upon your father.”
“Of that I’m perfectly certain, dear. Often I am tempted to relinquish my efforts to combat the evil they try to work against England, and yet the English are my own people—and also yours.”
“You’re a thorough brick, Ella. There’s not a girl in all the kingdom who has run greater risks than your dear self, or been more devoted to the British cause. Why, a dozen times you’ve walked fearlessly into danger, when you might have been blown to atoms by their infernal bombs.”