THE CRUISE OF
THE GYRO-CAR

HERBERT STRANG’S ROMANCES

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

KING OF THE AIR: or, To Morocco on an Airship

“Much the best book of its kind now in existence.”—Manchester Guardian.

“The flights of the airship and final rescue of the imprisoned diplomat are brilliantly told.”—Journal of Education.

“The story goes with a fine zest and gusto, and few writers have known as well as Herbert Strang the exact proportions to allow of amusement and information.”—Bookman.

LORD OF THE SEAS: the Story of a Submarine

“Mr. Herbert Strang has struck a new vein with remarkable success, and has narrated a series of exciting adventures in the South Seas in an effective and admirably sustained tone of humour.”—Notts Guardian.

“A rattling good story, full of life and go.”—Record.

SWIFT AND SURE: the Story of a Hydroplane

“A grand yarn about a hydroplane, in which Mr. Strang shows that he is a new Jules Verne.”—Hearth and Home.

“The excitement increases from chapter to chapter.”—Literary World.

JACK HARDY: a Story of the Smuggling Days

“A story about a gallant young middy.... The characters are drawn with originality and humour.”—Bookman.

“Herbert Strang is second to none in graphic power and veracity.”—Athenæum.

Price 2/6 each.

HENRY FROWDE AND HODDER & STOUGHTON

THE NEW AND THE OLD

THE CRUISE OF
THE GYRO-CAR

BY HERBERT STRANG

ILLUSTRATED BY A. C. MICHAEL

LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON

1911

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS
LONDON AND TONBRIDGE

PREFACE

Albania, once a Roman highway to the East, has been for many centuries the wildest and most inhospitable of European countries. The mountains that had echoed to the tramp of Roman legions, and had witnessed the culmination of the struggle between Cæsar and Pompey, became some fifteen centuries later the scene of one of the most glorious struggles for liberty of which we have record. For nearly a quarter of a century Scanderbeg, the national hero of Albania, with a few thousands of his mountaineers, stemmed the advancing tide of Turkish conquest. When at length the gallant Prince and his people were borne down by sheer weight of numbers, and Albania became a Turkish province, this mountain land, which had been a principal bulwark of Christendom against Islam, served to buttress the unstable empire of her new masters. It has been the settled policy of the Turk to keep the Albanian in a condition of semi-independence and complete barbarism, as a kind of savage watchdog at the gate. From time to time the dog has turned upon his master, and in many a fierce struggle the mountaineer has shown that he has not lost the fine qualities of courage and love of liberty that inspired Scanderbeg and his followers.

To the few Europeans, including J. G. von Hahn, Edward Lear, H. A. Brown, and E. F. Knight, who at no little personal risk have made a study of this romantic land and people, I am indebted for many interesting particulars, and especially to Miss M. E. Durham for the stories of “The Man and the Ass,” and the “Dismembered Cow.” The opening up of the country under the new régime in Turkey may soon render the visit of a motor- or gyro-car not more perilous there than in other parts of Europe, at present of better repute. But it will be long before the Via Egnatia, once the eastward continuation of the Appian Way, becomes as good a highway for motor or other traffic as it was two thousand years ago.

My young friend, George Buckland, is at present the sole possessor of a gyro-car, and he looks forward somewhat ruefully to the day when his scamper across Europe will no longer have the charm of novelty.

Herbert Strang.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE ROUTE OF THE GYRO-CAR

Chapter I
INTRODUCES THE GYRO-CAR

Among the passengers who alighted from the train at the terminus of Shepperton, the little village near the Thames, one evening in early summer, was a young man differing noticeably, but in a way not easy to define, from all the rest. He was tall, but so were many; dark, but most men are dark; bronzed, but the young men who spent idle hours in sculling or punting on the river were as suntanned as he. Nor was it anything in his attire that marked him out from his fellow-men, unless, perhaps, that he was a trifle “smarter” than they. Yet many eyes had been attracted to him as he walked down the platform at Waterloo, and many followed him, at Shepperton station, as he stepped out of the compartment and doffed his soft hat to a young girl, who stood evidently awaiting him, and whose face lit up at his approach.

“Hullo, kid!” he said, in the young Briton’s casual manner of greeting. “Where’s George?”

“He’ll be here in a minute or two,” replied the girl. “I am glad to see you, Maurice.”

“Thanks. How’s Aunt?”

“The same as ever,” said the girl with a smile. “Have you brought your luggage?”

“Just a valise. The porter has it. Take it to that fly, will you?” he added, as the man came up.

“Oh! Wait a minute,” said his sister, laying a hand on his arm. “George will be here in a minute.”

“That means ten, unless George has reformed. Well, well, children must be humoured.”

Brother and sister stood side by side chatting. The porter set the valise down by the fence. We may take advantage of the delay to explain that Maurice Buckland was one of the secretaries of the British agency at Sofia, and had come home on short leave. It was nearly two years since he was last in England. Affairs in the Balkans had been in a very ticklish condition, the focus of interest to all the chancelleries of Europe. A grave crisis had just been settled peaceably after a long diplomatic game of Puss in the Corner, and Buckland was at last free to take his well-earned holiday.

He showed an impatience far from diplomatic as the minutes flew by, and his younger brother George did not appear.

“Really, Sheila——” he began after five minutes.

“Please, a little longer,” interrupted his sister. “George has a surprise for you.”

“Has he, indeed! The greatest surprise would have been to find him punctual. What is he cracking his wits on now?”

“I mustn’t tell you. I wish he would come.”

They stood at the gate. A hungry flyman touched his hat. The porter was distracted between keeping one eye on the valise, the other on an old lady who seemed determined to enter the train before it had shunted to the up-platform.

Five more minutes passed.

“His surprise can keep,” said Maurice. “Porter!”

The man shouldered the valise and carried it to the waiting fly. Buckland and his sister entered the vehicle, the driver shut the door, touched his hat, clambered to his seat, and drove off. He knew the address; for the past year The Acacias, on the Chertsey Road, had been occupied by the Hon. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene, a middle-aged widow who kept house for her orphan nephew and niece. The fly rattled along through the village.

About half a mile from the station, as every one knows, the road sweeps round in a sharp curve to the right. To the left, at right-angles with it, stands the Anchor Hotel, with the vicarage adjacent and the old ivy-clad church beyond. Just as the fly reached the curve, there was a warning hoot from the opposite direction, and Buckland, glancing past the driver, saw a motor-car of unusual shape rushing towards them at the speed of an express train. With great presence of mind, and a violent execration, the flyman whipped up his horse and pulled it sharply to the near side towards the little post-office. Quick as he was, he could not prevent an accident. The motor-car, indeed, did not cut the horse and vehicle in two, as had seemed imminent, but merely grazed the off hind-wheel. Its occupant let forth a shout; the flyman had much ado to prevent his horse from bolting; and the motor-car, swerving from the shock, and wrenched round by its driver, dashed across the road, into the brick wall that bounds the curve, and fell with a crash.

“Oh! He’s killed!” cried Sheila, rising to spring from the fly.

“Sit still,” said her brother sternly, holding her down. “Pull up, driver.”

“Easier said nor done,” growled the man, “with the hoss scared out of its wits.”

But in a few seconds he had the horse in hand, and pulled up a few yards down the road. Buckland then helped his sister out, and rushed to see what had become of his unfortunate brother. The landlord, ostler, and boots of the Anchor were already on the spot; the proprietor of the Old King’s Head opposite was running to join his rival; and as Buckland came up, the vicar hastened out of his gate in his shirt-sleeves.

The late occupant of the car, a young fellow of eighteen or thereabouts, turned from contemplating his battered machine to greet his brother.

“Hullo, old man!” he said. “Here’s a pretty mess!”

“H’m! No bones broken, then. Is this your surprise?” said the elder brother in his best ironical manner.

“More or less,” replied George with a rueful grin. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“It appears that by not doing so I narrowly escaped extinction.”

“She’s a beauty, really, you know—or was,” said George.

“I notice a beautiful hole in the wall. But come, we are being stared at by the whole population. What are you going to do with this beautiful machine of yours?”

“I shall have to put her into garage for to-night, and get her to my workshop for repairs to-morrow. The front wheel is buckled; it’s a wonder the whole thing isn’t smashed. If you had only waited, instead of taking a wretched old fly, we should have been safe home by this time.”

“Meanwhile the fly is waiting. I will leave you to make your arrangements, and may I beg you to be expeditious.”

Maurice Buckland affected at times a formal mode of speech that his brother, fresh from Winchester, found very galling.

Maurice returned to the fly with his sister, ignoring the crowd which had by this time gathered about the car. Having seen this wheeled by a score of helpers into the garage attached to the Old King’s Head, George rejoined the others, and the homeward journey was resumed.

“Just my luck!” said George. “I was going to drive you home in fine style. That’s my new gyro-car.”

“Indeed!”

“It goes like winking.”

“So I saw,” said Maurice dryly.

“Yes; my own idea, you know—that is, it’s an adaptation of Louis Brennan’s mono-rail car. You saw it has four wheels tandem; it’s like a motor bicycle. You’ve heard of the gyroscope, of course?”

“I am not aware that I have.”

“Goodness! Is Sofia such a dead-alive place as that? I’ll show you how it works to-morrow.”

“Spare me! I have seen how it plays the dickens with time-honoured means of locomotion.”

“But, you know, it’s a splendid——”

“So are you, dear boy, but if you’ll allow me to say so, it was quite time I came home. As your guardian, I must really exercise a little restraint upon your exuberance. Your allowance is clearly far too big, if you are squandering it in devising means for the slaughter of your innocent fellow creatures.”

George felt somewhat resentful of his brother’s superior attitude, and held his peace for a minute or two. But his enthusiasm soon got the better of him, and he began again.

“It’s perfectly stunning, Maurice, the way she goes: isn’t it, Sheila?”

“Yes; it really is, Maurice,” said the girl eagerly. “We have had some splendid rides.”

“Do I understand that you are so dead to all decency of feeling as to endanger your only sister’s life as well as your own?” said Maurice severely.

“There’s no risk at all,” replied George; “that is, no more than in an ordinary motor. It was simply a piece of rotten bad luck. The gyroscopes are all right, but there’s a terrific amount of side thrust in turning a corner, and they’ve watered the road recently, so that in making allowance for the possibility of skidding——”

“Pray don’t treat me to a lecture on mechanics. The accident, as I conceive it, was the fault of your making an ass of yourself.”

“Here we are,” said Sheila, before George could answer, as the fly drew up at the gate of a large house. “We’ve got a lovely lawn, Maurice; I hope you’ve brought your tennis racquet.”

“My dear child, we have left the dark ages behind,” replied her brother acidly, and the two others, as they followed him into the house, felt that Maurice was even more insufferable than when he first put on high collars.

This impression was deepened at the dinner-table. The Honourable Mrs. Courtenay-Greene was a dowager of severe and wintry aspect, who wore pince-nez and had the habit of “looking down her nose,” as George irreverently put it. During dinner she and Maurice exchanged notes about common acquaintances, ignoring George until a chance mention of the gyro-car drew upon him a battery of satire, reproof, and condemnation.

“I shudder for our reputation,” said the lady. “We are already, I am sure, the talk of the neighbourhood.”

“Judging by what I have seen,” said Maurice, “we shall be lucky if we are not more than the talk. It will be manslaughter, at the least.”

“And our name will be in the papers!” said Mrs. Courtenay-Greene. “I live in a constant state of nervous terror. A motor accident on the road is disgraceful enough, but George is actually talking of running his ridiculous machine on the river.”

“Well, Aunt,” began George, but the lady closed her eyes and waved her hands as though warding off something ineffably contaminating.

“I will not listen to your plausible impertinences,” she said. “Maurice, shall we go and hear Tetrazzini to-morrow?”

George looked daggers at his aunt, and stole away as soon as dinner was finished, to talk over his grievances with Sheila.

Next day, he went early into the village, and returned in an hour or two, sitting on a lorry next to the driver, the damaged car behind him. It was taken to his workshop at the foot of the garden. Maurice was walking on the lawn, smoking a cigarette. He did not so much as lift his eyes as the vehicle passed, and George turned his head aside: the brothers might have been strangers.

For several days George was hardly to be seen. He had ordered a new front wheel and fork from the maker, and until they arrived forbore to speak of the gyro-car, and occupied himself in repairing the wind-screen in front, and in working at various mechanical models with which he was experimenting. He was going up to Cambridge in October, and the science master at his school foretold that he would take a first-class in the engineering tripos, if he would only concentrate himself and not dabble in things outside the curriculum.

The new parts arrived. On the next day Maurice was strolling past the workshop, which he had never yet deigned to enter, when his attention was arrested by the sight of his brother’s car standing by itself on the path. A faint humming proceeded from its interior. George was not to be seen. In spite of himself, Maurice found himself gazing at the machine with interest, for, though it had four wheels tandem, and was not supported on either side, it stood perfectly upright. He glanced round furtively to make sure that his brother was not watching, and then walked round the car, stooping at every few paces to look beneath it and assure himself that he was not mistaken. There were no supports; the machine was actually balancing itself on its four wheels.

“Rummy!” he murmured. “How’s it done?”

He was peeping over the side of the car, when George’s voice hailed him heartily.

“Hallo, Maurice! Isn’t she a beauty?”

Instantly he moved away, and began to stroll down the path as if nothing could be less worthy of his attention.

“Swank!” said George to himself.

He turned the starting-handle, mounted into the car, depressed the clutch-pedal, and having advanced the speed-lever a little, ran up the path, out at the front gate, and disappeared.

Maurice flung his cigarette away, looking a trifle disconcerted. He went to his room opening on to the road, and remained at the window until he heard the hum of the car returning. Then he slipped into the garden, and was sauntering up and down, when George ran the machine down the path to its garage.

“I’ve had a jolly spin,” said George. “Nearly ran into a foreign fellow in the village: there appears to be a little colony of foreigners there: come to try boating, I suppose.”

He sprang out of the car, causing it to set up a slight rocking motion, and went into his workshop. Maurice stood at a distance of a few yards, contemplating what was to him an embodied mystery.

The machine was several feet longer than an ordinary motor-car, but about half as wide, and shaped like a boat. Indeed, its general appearance was that of a motor-cycle which had broken through the bottom of a rowing boat. Abaft amidships there was a seat for two persons, arranged pannier fashion, and sunk somewhat below the top of the framework on which it rested. A little to the rear of the seat was a glass chamber, in which were two top-like things, connected by a bar. It was, apparently, from these that the humming proceeded, but they were not visibly rotating, though they swayed slightly. In front was the casing, presumably covering the motor; behind was a similar object, but smaller.

George came out of the workshop.

“Hallo!” he said, as if recognising his brother for the first time. “Taking a squint?”

“What are those things?” asked Maurice, nodding towards the glass case.

“Those? Oh, they’re the gyroscopes.”

He got into the car, and let down, one on each side, two supports, each with a small wheel at the end. Then he moved a lever to stop the spinning of the gyroscopes, got out again, lifted the cover of the motor, and proceeded to oil the engine. For some time not a word was spoken. Then Maurice broke the silence.

“Er! H’m! What, may I ask, is a gyroscope?”

“A top.”

“H’m! Do you think you could manage to speak in words of more than one syllable?”

“Well, gyroscope has three.”

“Undoubtedly. I am still a little doubtful as to the accuracy of your definition, or perhaps I should say, of the perfectness of my apprehension. Will you condescend to be lucid?”

“Oh, you want to be treated to a lecture in mechanics, do you? Are you sure it won’t hurt you? Aren’t you afraid of your name getting into the papers?”

Maurice opened his cigarette-case and offered it to his brother.

“Thanks, old man,” said George, contritely. “Got a light?”

Maurice struck a match, replaced the box in his pocket with deliberation, and said:

“George, old boy, what is a gyroscope?”

“Well, old man, it’s a sort of top, as you see. They’re stopping: it takes some time when they’re going at 5,000 a minute. You can see ’m spinning now. They’re in a vacuum, to get rid of air resistance and skin friction, and so you get a high velocity with a minimum of power.”

“That is not beyond my intelligence. Proceed with your lecture, and, if I may make a suggestion, begin with the use of this—gyroscope, I think you said.”

“It’s to keep the machine steady—balance it, you know.”

“I saw that it remained upright when stationary. That is very remarkable.”

“But that’s not all. Having two, I can take the sharpest corners with the greatest ease. I set them spinning in opposite directions, and they are so linked that as one sways to one side, the other sways to the other, so that the car doesn’t topple in turning a corner.”

“The machine apparently goes like a bicycle, with this difference, that you can stop dead without tumbling?”

“Yes, but it’s better than a bicycle. A cyclist has to keep his machine upright: the gyroscopes do that, and you can give your whole attention to steering. The wheels being tandem, too, I can use ball-bearings. I’ve got a petrol motor that actuates a dynamo, and so avoid the necessity of altering the gear going up-hill, and the noise it makes.”

In his enthusiasm he had forgotten his brother’s former aloofness, and was now bent on instructing him. He proceeded with a piece of stick to draw a diagram on the gravel in illustration of the scientific details he gave.

Maurice listened and looked patiently, but at the end of five minutes’ technical explanation he yawned and said:

“Ah! Very interesting, but quite beyond me. In other respects the thing is an ordinary motor-car?”

“Yes, but as much faster as a bicycle is faster than a tricycle. I can go faster than a four-wheeled motor of double the horsepower.”

“A doubtful advantage. The temptation to exceed the speed limit must be rather distressing.”

“Besides, being so much narrower, it can go where a motor cannot.”

“That would certainly be an advantage in a tight place, but I presume they don’t allow you to run on the pavement? By the bye,” continued Maurice, “I see that your gyro-car, as you call it, has no doors, and you have to vault over the side in getting in and out. That strikes me as being somewhat of an inconvenience, and an unnecessary one, to boot.”

“Not a bit of it. The car is built so low that it doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s an amphibious animal, old man; any sort of opening in the sides would hardly tend to increase its sea-worthiness.”

“You don’t mean to say that the thing goes in the water too?” said Maurice, genuinely surprised.

“Aha! I thought I’d surprise you. I tell you what, Maurice, we’ll go for a spin this afternoon, and I’ll show you how it goes, both on land and water: that is, if you’re not afraid to trust your precious skin to me.”

“My dear boy, I have made my will. Let us wait and see the condition of my pulse after luncheon.”

Chapter II
UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS

The gyro-car ran that afternoon with such easy speed that Maurice Buckland was stirred out of his carefully cultivated indifference. Before it had gone a quarter of a mile he had ejaculated “By George!” three times in a crescendo of admiration, and gave a hearty assent to George’s assertion that “she” was a spanker. Nor was he perturbed when she narrowly shaved a foreign-looking man hanging about at the corner of the road that led to the Weybridge Ferry. After half an hour’s spin George suggested that they should try her on the water, but then Maurice relapsed into his former sceptical manner, and declared that he had had enough for one day.

On the way back they again passed the foreigner, who stood aside and watched the strange car as it flashed by.

“Did you notice the greedy look on that fellow’s face?” said George.

“I am not in the least interested in him,” replied Maurice coldly.

“I suppose not. You see foreign Johnnies every day. He looked as if he wished the car were his. Will you come on the river to-morrow?”

“No. I am going to Town.”

“You’ll let me drive you to the station?”

“By all means, if you’ll promise to go carefully round the corner.”

“Rather! Those old flies are dangerous, and ought to be abolished.”

Next afternoon George had the pleasure of driving his brother to the station. As they passed the Anchor they noticed a large motor-car with a yellow body standing at the door of the little hotel. Several foreigners were lounging on the garden seat in front of the coffee-room. They broke off their conversation as the gyro-car ran by, looking after it with curiosity. A minute after it arrived at the station the motor-car dashed up. Two men alighted from it, and went into the booking-office, where Maurice had just taken his ticket. George did not leave the gyro-car or wait to see the train off, but called a good-bye to Maurice over the fence, and promised to meet him on his return.

Maurice came back by the train arranged. The gyro-car was awaiting him. Behind it stood the yellow motor-car, and Maurice was followed out of the gate by the two foreigners who had travelled by the up train.

“One of those fellows is a Count something or other,” said George as they drove back. “A general too. The village is quite excited about him.”

“British snobbishness!” said Maurice. “They came down in my compartment: don’t know our ways, I suppose.”

“How do you mean?”

“There was another smoker two compartments off, quite empty, but they came in with me: don’t know we prefer to travel alone when we can.”

“British standoffishness!” said George with a smile. “Did they speak to you?”

“Yes. It was rather amusing. They spoke in French about all sorts of subjects, and by and by got on to ‘le cricket,’ as they called it—with the deliberate purpose of attracting my attention, I believe. They talked the most fearful tosh. By-and-by one of them turned to me. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, in excellent English, ‘but I see that Kent has beaten Yorkshire by three wickets. Will you have the goodness to explain precisely what that means?’”

“What did you say?” asked George.

“Oh! I explained to them that the wickets were three stumps stuck in the ground, and without waiting for any more, the man turned to his companion and said, ‘Eh bien! Je l’ai bien dit. Les vainqueurs rossent les vaincus avec les stomps.’”

“Construe, construe, old man: they didn’t speak French like that at school.”

“More’s the pity. What he said was: ‘I told you so. The winners whack the losers with the stumps.’”

“By gum!” said George with a laugh. “That stumped ’em. What happened next?”

“Oh! I buried myself behind my paper. I dislike extremely being disturbed in that way.”

“There are about half a dozen altogether,” said George. “The Count and another are at the Anchor: the rest, servants, I suppose, have overflowed into the Old King’s Head. Rather hard on the boating-men, isn’t it? Several couldn’t get rooms to-day.”

“Really, George, I hope you are not becoming a Paul Pry.”

“Of course not. Sheila went into the post-office to get some stamps, and had it all thrown at her by the girl there. Foreign counts are a rarity in Shepperton. What in the world brought them here? They don’t appear to go in for boating.”

“My dear fellow, does it matter?”

“Well no, but it’s funny, that’s all.”

Mrs. Courtenay-Greene agreed with her elder nephew that it was undesirable to pay any attention to the strangers, even though one of them was a count and a general.

“It is perfectly shocking,” she said, “the way we are being eaten up by aliens.”

To Maurice Buckland’s great annoyance, however, it proved impossible to avoid the foreigners. If he walked to the village, he was bound to meet some of them. Whenever he went to Town, it appeared that one or more of the party had business there too. Sometimes they returned by the same train, and then, no matter how many empty compartments there might be, his privacy was sure to be invaded. Once, when the train was full, the man whom he supposed to be the count entered the compartment at the last moment, and stood between Maurice and the passenger opposite, courteously apologising for the inconvenience he caused. Room was made for him when some of the passengers got out at Clapham Junction, and he seated himself next to Maurice, and remarked on the immensity of the station. His manner was so polite and conciliatory that it was impossible to snub him outright, but Maurice took refuge in a cold reserve that discouraged further advances.

One day George persuaded his brother to attempt a spin on the river. They ran the gyro-car down on to the ferryboat, and George having made the necessary adjustments, took the water and proceeded up stream in the direction of the lock. Only a minute or two afterwards the yellow motor-car came dashing down the road. Three of the foreigners dismounted from it, hired a boat, and followed in the wake of the gyro-car, which had by this time entered the lock. The gates were still open; the lock-keeper thought it hardly worth while to fill and empty for the sake of one toll. Consequently, as the gyro-car lay against the side, waiting, the Bucklands saw the foreigners’ boat coming in at the lower gates, and zigzagging in a manner that proved its occupants to be inexperienced watermen.

George smiled as he watched the men’s clumsy movements. The boat entered the lock, the gates were shut, and the lock-keeper ran along the side to let in water at the upper end. When the vessels lay opposite to each other, with only a narrow space between them, it was natural enough that a word or two should be exchanged between their occupants; and George, who was free from any taint of standoffishness, responded readily to the distinguished-looking stranger in the stern of the boat when he said:

“This is a very remarkable car of yours, sir. I have seen it once or twice, and always with great admiration.”

At the same time he made a courteous salute to Maurice, who acknowledged it freezingly.

“Yes, it is rather useful,” said George, flattered by the stranger’s attentions. A conversation ensued between them, in which George described his mechanism with some minuteness. The gyro-car was simply a hobby; he had no idea of making a secret of it; and the stranger’s interest was so genuine, and yet so devoid of inquisitiveness, that George was soon on friendly terms with him.

While they were talking, the upper sluices were opened, and the water poured with rush and whirl into the lock. The mechanism formed another topic of conversation, which lasted until the lock was filled, the keeper had collected the toll, and there was free access to the higher reach.

“I am very much interested,” said the stranger. “Permit me, sir.” He handed George a card. “I am staying with my secretary at the Anchor Hotel, and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honour to call on me there. And you also, I need not say, sir,” he added, bowing to Maurice.

“Thanks awfully,” said George.

“I am exceedingly obliged,” said Maurice.

Salutations were exchanged; the gyro-car ran smoothly out of the lock, and the boat followed slowly, watched with a quizzical eye by the keeper.

“General Count Slavianski,” read George from the card. “Russian, Maurice?”

“Or Polish. You will not call on the man?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Oh, well, do as you please, but don’t drag me with you. I am fed up with continentals.”

George called next day on Count Slavianski at the hotel, and was charmed with his new acquaintance, and also with Major Rostopchin, his secretary. He would have liked to return their hospitality, but Mrs. Courtenay-Greene refused to have anything to do with them, so that the budding friendship did not develop. One of the Count’s servants scraped acquaintance with the under-gardener at the Acacias, who told his fellow-servants that the foreigner was a decent chap, and a dab at billiards, as he had discovered at the Old King’s Head.

Three weeks went by. One Monday morning Maurice received a letter from the Foreign Office requesting him to call that afternoon on important business. He took the 2.10 train to Waterloo, carrying a black official bag in which he had a few unimportant papers that he intended to leave at the office. Just as the train was on the point of starting, two of the Count Slavianski’s servants rushed through the gate and sprang into the nearest third-class compartment. Maurice congratulated himself that they were not the Count himself and his secretary; he was a little tired of the too-frequent company of those gentlemen.

At Waterloo he entered a taxi-cab, which landed him within a few minutes at the door of the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was somewhat surprised when he learnt that his interview was to be, not with one of the principal clerks, but with the Foreign Secretary himself, and still more surprised at the communication which that great man made to him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Buckland,” he said. “I am sorry to cut short your leave, but you must return to Sofia at once. I have a despatch of the highest importance for your chief, and you must start to-morrow. I wanted to see you myself, for this reason: it will be better for you to go by some route that does not pass through Austrian or German territory. That is unfortunate on the score of time, for the quickest way is undoubtedly by Vienna; but you will remember that during the last crisis a Montenegrin Minister was stopped and searched by the Austrians—a flagrant violation of the etiquette of civilised nations, but one that Montenegro was not strong enough to resent.”

“I understand, sir,” said Buckland.

“I need not enter into particulars with you,” pursued the Secretary. “It is enough to say that things are once more looking exceedingly black in the Balkans—so black that I do not care to trust to the telegraph. The despatch will be written to-night, and you will call for it to-morrow in time to catch the day train for Paris. Probably your best course will be to go straight to Brindisi, where I will arrange for a torpedo-boat to meet you and convey you to Constantinople. From Constantinople you will go by train to Sofia. The Paris train leaves Charing Cross at 2.20, as you know; you will find the despatch ready for you by 11.”

The Secretary was a man of few words. He had given his instructions, and had nothing more to say. Buckland withdrew, left his papers with one of the clerks, and, looking at his watch, saw that he had plenty of time to catch the 5 o’clock train from Waterloo.

When he left the Foreign Office, the news-boys were crying the evening papers, and on one of the bills Buckland read, in large block letters, the words BALKAN CRISIS. It was clear that the foreign correspondents had already got hold of something. He wished that the Secretary had been more communicative; it was tantalising to carry an important despatch of whose contents he knew nothing. No doubt it was an instruction as to the policy of the British Government. He bought two or three papers to see what the rumours were, then turned into the National Club to wait until it was time to return to Waterloo. Just as he entered the door he saw one of Count Slavianski’s men, who had come up by the same train from Shepperton, walking along from the direction of Trafalgar Square. The man gave him a salute and passed on.

The few men in the club smoking-room were talking about the news from the Balkans. Buckland, an infrequent visitor, was unknown to them, and they went on with their conversation, while he sat by the window reading his papers. He smiled as he caught an oracular remark occasionally, in a keen discussion as to what the British policy would be. As to that he knew no more than they, but his knowledge of the general situation enabled him to listen to their random shots with amusement.

What he knew was as follows.

Austria, having absorbed the Bosnian provinces some years before, and digested them with more or less satisfaction to herself, was now hungry for another meal. The raids of a number of Servian bands into the discontented portion of the annexed territories had given her a cause of complaint against Servia. The Serbs of Montenegro had been implicated in these raids, and it was common knowledge that Austria had long fixed a covetous eye on the little mountain principality which had lately become a kingdom. The papers now announced that three army corps were mobilising on the south-eastern frontier of the empire, threatening Belgrade and Cettinje. It was not announced, but all well-informed people knew, that behind Austria in these movements, as in the earlier annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was the second member of the Triple Alliance—Germany.

The question that interested journalists, clubmen, and the Services was, what attitude would Britain take up in face of this menacing action? She had not shown up very well when Bosnia and Herzegovina were absorbed; would she do anything now to protect the tiny kingdom of Montenegro against her powerful neighbour? Buckland suspected that these questions would be answered in the despatch which he was to receive for conveyance to his chief. He hoped and believed that the answers would satisfy all who cherished the prestige of Britain. The British Cabinet would probably make a firm stand. Russia was now much more able to stiffen her back than she had been during the previous crisis, when she was only beginning to recover from the strain of the war with Japan. Turkey, too, was in a better position to resist the southward movement by which Austria was creeping to her ultimate goal—Constantinople. An improved government, and a general overhauling of the army and navy, had made her a power to be reckoned with. The third member of the Triple Alliance—Italy—certainly had no interest in seeing an Austro-German Empire extend from the Balkans to the Bosphorus, perhaps, indeed, to the Euphrates. Britain might therefore expect support from the Powers which had formerly been helpless.

One unfortunate element in the situation was the probability that Austria would have assistance from the mountaineers of Albania. These had always looked with suspicion on the reforms in Turkey, and their distrust had of late been carefully fomented by Austrian agents.

This being the general situation, the attitude of Bulgaria was of the highest importance in the calculations of each of the Powers concerned. It was rumoured that Austria was tempting Bulgaria with promises of large territorial gains when the projected dismemberment of Turkey became an accomplished fact. Bulgaria had an excellently appointed army; her support would be of great value to Montenegro; and the diplomacy of the interested Powers was therefore keenly engaged in the attempt to sway the counsels of the Government at Sofia. Buckland’s despatch would without doubt convey the advice of the British Cabinet, through their representative.

Such were the facts, and such the speculations, discussed in the papers on that July afternoon. Buckland had a cup of tea in the club, and at 4.40 hailed a taxicab to drive him to Waterloo. The 5 o’clock train was not crowded. Many of its usual passengers were holiday-making; it was too early for the rush of men returning from business. Buckland settled himself in the near corner of an empty first-class compartment, placing his official bag on the seat next to him. A few moments before 5, Count Slavianski and his secretary strolled down the platform, smoking very fat cigars, and entered the compartment in which Buckland was seated.

“A beautiful day, is it not?” said the Count genially, as he stepped past Buckland.

“Rather hot in town,” replied Buckland, burying his face in his newspaper. Really, these intrusive Russians were very annoying.

The two foreigners occupied the far corners of the compartment, and chatted to each other on subjects in which Buckland took no interest. The train crawled down the line; it takes forty-seven minutes to perform its short journey of nineteen miles; and Buckland felt rather sleepy. At Sunbury, just as the guard’s whistle sounded, the two foreigners suddenly jumped up, the Count saying to his secretary in French,“We must get out here.” There was a moment of hurry-scurry; the train was already in motion when the two men sprang on to the platform. The Count waved his hand to Buckland, with a hurried “Bon soir, monsieur!” and Buckland wondered for a brief moment why they had alighted a station short of Shepperton. But he was so little interested in them that before he reached his own station he had forgotten them.

When the train drew up, he rose and took up the black bag from the seat. An unaccustomed something in the feel of the handle caused him to look at it. It was exactly similar to his own bag, but it was not his.

“I suppose I took up the wrong bag at the Foreign Office,” he said to himself; “though I didn’t notice anything in the feel of it before.”

The bag was not locked, and he opened it There was nothing in it but a morning newspaper.

The household at the Acacias was variously sorry when Buckland announced his immediate departure. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene was regretful at losing the company of a man of the world; Sheila was fond of her brother when he allowed his natural self to appear; and George had found him a very pleasant companion since he had become interested in the gyro-car.

“How rotten!” said the boy on hearing the news. “Why can’t they let you enjoy your holiday in peace?”

“My dear George,” replied Maurice, “our little private concerns are as dust swept by a broom when world-forces are at work. You’ll learn that some day.”

George merely snorted.

Before dinner Maurice made all his preparations for leaving by the 10 o’clock train in the morning. After coffee and a game of billiards he scribbled a note to an old college friend with whom he had arranged to spend a few days in the following week, and went out with George to post it at the little post-office opposite the Anchor Hotel. When they reached their gate they saw a man walking slowly up the road, and at the second glance recognised him by the light of a gas-lamp as one of the servants of Count Slavianski. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, but immediately faced about and went on more quickly towards the village.

Maurice Buckland was not by nature a suspicious man, but the sight of the foreigner brought to his recollection the incidents of the day and of the past fortnight, and for the first time he wondered whether he was being dogged. The arrival of the foreigners in the village a few days after his own; their apparent want of occupation; their frequent visits to town, going and returning by the same trains as himself; their persistent endeavours to improve their acquaintance with him: all these incidents, which appeared to have no special significance when they happened, seemed now, in the light of the European situation, to gain importance. He recalled the strange matter of the bag, and, thinking backward, fancied he remembered that the Count’s secretary had a black bag when he entered the carriage at Waterloo. If in the hurry of their departure at Sunbury they had taken his bag by mistake, surely it would have been returned by this time; his name was in it. Short though his experience in the diplomatic world had been, he was alive to the dangers of espionage; was it possible that Count Slavianski and his subordinates were agents of one of the Powers?

“A penny for your thoughts,” said George suddenly.

Maurice slackened his pace.

“What would you say to your friend the Count being a spy?” he replied in a low tone.

“I say, do you mean it?” said George. “What a lark! Who is he spying on?”

“Speak low, and I’ll tell you what I suspect.”

He told George some of the essential facts of the situation, winding up with the incident of the bag.

“It’s rummy, certainly,” said George, considerably excited. “But do you think it’s likely? Why should half a dozen foreigners spy on you? What reason have they to suppose that you would have any information of importance to them?”

“Only this; that I am the only member of our agency at present in London. These foreigners do things very thoroughly; it is not at all unlikely that they would keep me under observation. The Count did not travel up with me to-day, but two of his men did. I wonder whether you could find out discreetly, in the village, when the Count went up?”

“Oh! I can tell you that. I went down to the village this afternoon to arrange for some petrol to be sent up. I was standing near the door of the King’s Head, when I saw a telegraph boy go into the Anchor with a telegram, and a minute afterwards the Count and his secretary came out, got into the motor, and rushed off full pelt to the station, just in time for the 4 o’clock.”

“Sharp work!” said Maurice. “Those fellows must have handed in a telegram directly we got to Waterloo. No doubt they heard me tell the taxi-driver to drive to the Foreign Office, and the Count hurried up to see what he could get. He couldn’t have reached Waterloo more than five minutes before the down train started. He must have arranged for the car to meet him at Sunbury, so that there would be no inquiries about the exchange of bags here. My bag was empty; it’s lucky the Secretary hadn’t his despatch ready.”

By this time they had reached the post-office. Maurice slipped his letter into the aperture, and threw a look round. The man who had preceded them along the road had disappeared. There were lights in the Anchor, but no one was in sight.

“I say, Maurice,” said George as they returned, “would a nobleman descend to such dirty work as spying?”

“If he’s a spy, he’s no more a count than I am,” Maurice replied. “He’s probably some clever rascal with a turn for languages; certainly his appearance and manner would pass muster anywhere. Of course I may be utterly mistaken; but seeing this is an important business, it will be just as well to take a few precautions to cover my departure to-morrow. We’ll suppose they are actually spying on me. Well, if I leave the house with baggage they’ll know I’m off on a journey, and will dog me. I’ll go up by the 10 o’clock without my valise, and one or more of those fellows will come too, you may be sure. They won’t watch you in my absence; you can bring up my valise by your gyro-car, and meet me in the lounge of the Grand Hotel at Charing Cross after I’ve left the Foreign Office. You can leave the car in the garage. Don’t go through the village, and they won’t be any the wiser.”

“I say, this is jolly. It will be no end of a lark to do them. But look here, old boy, if they are spies, they must keep watch night and day.”

“I daresay they do. We’ll find that out.”

About midnight the brothers, wearing overcoats and slippers, left the house by the backdoor, stole along the shrubbery that bounded it on one side, and so came to the hedge dividing the garden from the road. George crawled through the hedge at the bottom where the foliage was thinnest, and peered up the road towards the village. Nobody was in sight. But as they went up to their bedrooms they glanced out of a window on the staircase, overlooking the field on the other side of the road. A full moon threw its light from behind the house. Just beyond the hedge of the field opposite they caught sight of a man smoking a cigar.

“There’s our proof,” said Maurice quietly.

“By gum! we’ll dish them,” cried his brother.

Chapter III
THE YELLOW CAR

Next morning Maurice left the house at half-past nine, and walked through the village to the station, carrying his black bag. Seeing Count Slavianski and his secretary on the bench in front of the hotel, he saluted them with a shade less coolness than usual, fully expecting to hear the motor-car behind him before he was half-way to the station. To his surprise, however, none of the foreigners arrived in time for the train, and he supposed that he was to be allowed for once to make the journey to London unshadowed. This idea was dispelled as soon as he reached Sunbury. When the train drew up, he saw the Count and his secretary on the platform. They entered a compartment some little distance away.

At Waterloo he stood at the bookstall for a few moments, looking out for the Russians with sidelong glances. He saw nothing of them. Hailing a taxi-cab, he was driven to the Foreign Office, which he reached at a quarter-past eleven. On entering, he was taken this time to the Under-Secretary’s room.

“Good morning, Mr. Buckland,” said the official; “I am sorry to say that the despatch is not yet ready. News came early this morning which caused the Secretary to modify his instructions to your chief. He has drafted a new despatch, which is in course of being translated into cipher. I am afraid it will not be ready for a couple of hours yet.”

“That will give me time to make a few purchases,” said Buckland. “I shall be able to catch the two-twenty?”

“I hope so. It will be a pity to lose half a day.”

“I will leave my bag with you, then, and return in good time. By the way, you don’t happen to have heard of a gang of Austrian spies in London?”

“Not a word. Why do you ask?”

“A number of foreigners have been living at Shepperton for a week or two, and I’ve an idea they may be shadowing me. The chief of them passes as a Count Slavianski.”

“I never heard of him. Wait a minute.”

He touched a bell, and a clerk appeared.

“Ask Mr. Rowlands if he knows anything of a Count Slavianski, now lodging at Shepperton.”

The clerk soon returned.

“Mr. Rowlands heard of the Count this morning, sir,” he said, “and has sent Williams down to inquire.”

“Thank you.” The clerk disappeared. “We shall know more presently. Perhaps you had better have a detective or two with you, as far as Dover at any rate.”

“I think not. They would only draw attention to me and show the importance of my journey. These fellows, if they are spies, no doubt have agents abroad, and would put them on the qui vive. I had better go quietly, and try to find some means of throwing them off the scent.”

“Just as you please,” said the Under-Secretary, with a smile.

Buckland went up Whitehall into the Strand, made his purchases, and started back again to the National Club. There was no sign of the foreigners. He took an early lunch, and returned to the Foreign Office at half-past one. The despatch still not being ready, he sat down to wait. While so doing an idea struck him. He got some Foreign Office paper, and amused himself by writing an imaginary despatch in the usual cipher, jotting down the first words that came into his head. This he sealed up in a long envelope like those that were ordinarily used, but took the precaution to make a small mark on it, by which he would be able to distinguish it from the real despatch.

The minutes flew by. Two o’clock came. Holding his watch in his hand, he began to doubt his chance of catching the Paris train. At a quarter past he gave it up. It was half-past before he was summoned to the Secretary’s room.

“You have lost the train,” said the Minister. “It was unavoidable, and is perhaps not altogether unfortunate. The police have just reported a number of suspicious characters hanging about the termini.”

“I fancy I have been shadowed this morning, sir,” said Buckland. “A Count Slavianski has been living at Shepperton for some weeks, with a suite. A detective has been sent down to make inquiries.”

“Indeed! Then it will certainly be inadvisable to charter a special train and hold up the boat at Dover. We must do nothing to attract attention. I leave the route entirely to your discretion. A torpedo-boat will be at Brindisi on Friday, but should circumstances render it necessary for you to choose some other route, you are perfectly at liberty to do so. One thing is essential: that you should lose no time.”

“Might I have an Admiralty launch to put me across the Channel?” asked Buckland.

“Certainly. What is your idea?”

“To dodge these fellows, if I can, and join the slow train to Dover at some little station down the line. Then I could slip out at Dover Town station, and cut off to the launch.”

“That sounds promising. I will telephone to the Admiralty at once.”

The arrangement was quickly made. Buckland shook hands with the Secretary, locked the despatch in his bag, and left the building.

Glancing down Whitehall, he saw one of Count Slavianski’s underlings forty or fifty yards away on the opposite side of the street. He began to walk in the other direction towards Trafalgar Square, and was not much astonished to see another of the foreigners hanging about, in an apparently aimless manner, nearly the same distance away. As he went slowly towards the Grand Hotel, this man moved on also. Buckland crossed the road, and halted to look in at a bookseller’s window. A glance to the left showed him that the other man had followed him at about the same pace. There was no longer the least room for doubt. He was being dogged.

He went on, and glanced down Northumberland Avenue, on arriving at the corner. At the entrance of the Victoria Hotel stood a large racing motor-car, with a yellow body. It was empty, and neither Count Slavianski nor any of his party was to be seen. But Buckland felt certain that it was the Count’s car. “A very keen lot,” he thought. Keeping a careful guard over himself so that he should not betray any sign of consciousness that he was surrounded by watchers, he walked into the hall of the Grand Hotel.

“I thought you were never coming,” said George, springing up to meet him. “I’ve been here hours. You have lost the train.”

“Yes. Speak low, and don’t look towards the door. I’ll tell you all about it.”

They seated themselves on chairs, placing them where there was no danger of being overheard. Buckland lit a cigarette.

“I had to wait while a new despatch was ciphered,” he said. “There’s no doubt that I’m being shadowed, George. The Count and his secretary got in at Sunbury; their car’s outside; and I’ve just seen two of their men in Whitehall.”

“By gum! the two others are somewhere about. I drove across country to Richmond, but I believe I saw the yellow car behind me as I came through Putney. It was a good way behind, and I couldn’t be sure of it. I had enough to do to steer clear of the traffic from Putney on; but, you may depend on it, they had their eye on me, and they know I’ve got your baggage.”

“Well, it’s pretty clear that they mean business. They’re bent on intercepting my despatch. We know there are six of them; how many more we can’t tell; but it looks as if they’ve made their plans on a pretty large scale.”

“It must cost a heap of money,” said George.

“That’s a small matter compared with the value of the information they hope to get. For every hundred they spend in obtaining news they may save a million. They mean by hook or crook to find out what England’s next move is to be, and when they take a matter of that sort in hand they don’t do things by halves. I’m certain they have made very complete arrangements to shadow and run down any one passing between the Foreign Office and our agency at Sofia.”

“By Jove!” was all that George could utter for a moment. His notion of it’s being what he had called a “lark” had quite vanished. “What will you do, old man?” he asked at length.

“I think I had better slip out by the back entrance in Craven Street, and make a dash in a taxi for Herne Hill. You stay here till I ’phone you from the station; then send the porter with my valise to Charing Cross and tell him to book it through to Paris by the 9 o’clock. I’ll wait at Herne Hill for the next Dover train.”

“That sounds all right. But did they see you come in?”

“You may be sure they did.”

“Well, they’ll watch for you to come out again.”

“They may not know of the back entrance. I’ll go and see.”

He rose and left the hall. In less than five minutes he was back again.

“One of the fellows is standing at the corner of Craven Street and the Strand,” he said quietly. “There’s another, whom I don’t recognise, strolling a little way down the street, and near him there’s a taxi with its flag down.”

“Just what you might have expected. You can’t get away without being seen, that’s clear.”

“Well, I must simply go openly, and take my chance. Where’s the gyro-car, by the way?”

“In the garage.”

“Then this is what we’ll do. I’ll engage a taxi, and tell the chauffeur to drive northward, and zigzag for a quarter of an hour or so through the streets between here and Oxford Street. If he’s up to his work, it will be impossible for the Count’s motor to keep the taxi in sight. When we’re clear, we’ll drive straight to Herne Hill. You must get away as soon as you can without attracting attention; then run out and make for Herne Hill too. You’ll get along faster than any ordinary motor, because you can squeeze through the traffic. I hope that I shall draw them all off, so that they won’t trouble about you; but if they see you, you must come on as fast as you can, with due regard to the speed limit. Pick me up at Herne Hill, and run me down to Dover; an Admiralty launch will be waiting for me there. Have you plenty of petrol?”

“Enough to drive from here to Edinburgh. This is going to be great sport after all.”

Maurice beckoned the hall porter and asked him to call a taxi. In half a minute it was at the door. Maurice walked out slowly, threw the end of his cigarette away, and, as he stepped in, told the chauffeur to drive to 73, Cavendish Square, the first number and address that came into his head.

“Beg pardon, sir, there is no number 73,” said the driver.

“Oh no! Thirty-seven. Drive slowly.”

At a glance towards the Victoria Hotel, Buckland saw that the yellow car was no longer there, but he caught sight of it in a moment drawn up on the south side of Trafalgar Square, opposite the offices of the Hamburg-American Line. Looking over the lowered tilt of the taxi-cab he failed to see the car in pursuit, but on reaching the Haymarket he noticed another taxi-cab about forty yards behind, and behind that, rapidly overhauling it, a small private motor-car. He was not sure that these were on his track, and determined to put it to the test.

“Driver,” he said through the speaking tube, “I think that taxi behind is following me, and I want to shake it off. Take all the side streets you come to; never mind about Cavendish Square; a sovereign if you do it.”

The cabman winked. He ran up the Haymarket, was checked by a policeman at Coventry Street; then, when the traffic was parted, cut across into Windmill Street, swept round into Brewer Street, turned the corner into Golden Square at a speed that caused an old gentleman to shake his stick and call for the police, and so by Beak Street into Regent Street and presently into Savile Row. Long before this the taxi-cab which had followed was lost in the traffic.

“Well done,” said Buckland. “Now turn back and hurry to Blackfriars Bridge, and then to Herne Hill. Choose the quietest streets.”

He sat well back in the cab, congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem. The driver made his way by a roundabout course to the Strand, down Arundel Street to the Temple, and along the Embankment. At the entrance to De Keyser’s Hotel Buckland noticed a man standing with his hands in his pockets beside a stationary taxi-cab. No sooner had Buckland passed than the man darted towards the cab, and said a few words to a person inside. The vehicle instantly started in pursuit across the bridge, the man who had given the alarm dashing into the hotel.

“Well I’m hanged!” said Buckland to himself; he had watched these movements intently. The pursuers had evidently guessed that he might make for one of the southern stations, and had set a watch probably at all the bridges. He had no doubt that the man who had run into the hotel was now telephoning to his friends, and the taxi-cab following close behind would keep him in view. The number of his own cab had almost certainly been noted as soon as he entered it.