felt as you do.”
“I think most of them do,” replied Doris, smiling slowly, “but you know, you haven’t always been nice to us. There have been many times when we felt that as an older brother you treated us rather shabbily. I’m heaping coals of fire, you see.”
“Touché!” said Rizzio, with a laugh.
“I bare my head,” said the Earl.
“Ashes to ashes,” from Lady Joyliffe.
Kipshaven smiled. “Once in England gray hairs were venerated, even among the frivolous. Now,” he sighed, “they are only a reproach. Peccavi. Forgive me. I wish I could set the clock back.”
“You’d go?” asked Doris.
“Tomorrow,” said the old Earl with enthusiasm.
Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley who was enjoying his soup, a purée he liked particularly.
“But isn’t there something you could do?”
“Yes. Write, for America—for Italy—for Sweden and Holland—for Spain. It’s something, but it isn’t enough. My fingers are itching for a sword.”
The Honorable Cyril looked up.
“Pen mightier than sword,” he quoted vacuously, and went on with his soup.
“You don’t really mean that, Hammersley,” said Kipshaven amid smiles.
“Well rather,” drawled the other. “All silly rot—fightin’. What’s the use. Spoiled my boar-shootin’ in Hesse-Nassau—no season at Carlsbad—no season anywhere—everything the same—winter—summer–”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were in the trenches, my boy,” laughed Byfield.
“Beastly happy I’m not,” said Hammersley. “Don’t mind shootin’ pheasant or boar. Bad form—shootin’ men—not the sportin’ thing, you know—pottin’ a bird on the ground—’specially Germans.”
“Boches!” said Lady Betty contemptuously. She was inclined to be intolerant. For her Algy had already been mentioned in dispatches. “I don’t understand you, Cyril.”
Hammersley regarded her gravely while Constance Joyliffe took up his cudgels.
“You forget Cyril’s four years at Heidelberg.”
“No I don’t,” said their hostess warmly, “and I could almost believe Cyril had German sympathies.”
“I have, you know,” said Hammersley calmly, sniffing at the rim of his wineglass.
“This is hardly the time to confess it,” said Kipshaven dryly.
Doris sat silent, aware of a deep humiliation which seemed to envelop them both.
Rizzio laughed and produced a clipping from Punch. “Hammersley is merely stoically peaceful. Listen.” And he read:
“I was playing golf one day when the Germans landed
All our troops had run away and all our ships were stranded
And the thought of England’s shame nearly put me off my game.”
Amid the laughter the Honorable Cyril straightened.
“Silly stuff, that,” he said quite seriously, “to put a fellow off his game.” And turning to Lady Joyliffe: “Punch a bit brackish lately. What?”
“Cyril, you’re insular,” from Lady Heathcote.
“No, insulated,” said Doris with a flash of the eyes.
Rizzio laughed. “Highly potential but—er—not dangerous. Why should he be? He’s your typical Briton—sport-loving, calm and nerveless in the most exacting situations—I was at Lords, you know, when Hammersley made that winning run for Marylebone—two minutes to play. Every bowler they put up–”
“It’s hardly a time for bats,” put in Kipshaven dryly. “What we need is fast bowlers—with rifles.”
The object of these remarks sat serenely, smiling blandly around the table, but made no reply. In the pause that followed Sandys was heard in a half whisper to Byfield.
“What’s this I hear of a leak at the War Office?”
Captain Byfield glanced down the table. “Have you heard that?”
“Yes. At the club.”
Captain Byfield touched the rim of his glass to his lips.
“I’ve heard nothing of it.”
“What?” from a chorus.
“Information is getting out somewhere. I violate no confidences in telling you. The War Office is perturbed.”
“How terrible!” said Lady Joyliffe. “And don’t they suspect?”
“That’s the worst of it. The Germans got wind of some of Lord Kitchener’s plans and some of the Admiralty’s—which nobody knew but those very near the men at the top.”
“A spy in that circle—unbelievable,” said Kipshaven.
“My authority is a man of importance. Fortunately no damage has been done. The story goes that we’re issuing false statements in certain channels to mislead the enemy and find the culprit.”
“But how does the news reach the Germans?” asked Rizzio.
“No one knows. By courier to the coast and then by fast motor-boat perhaps; or by aëroplane. It’s very mysterious. A huge Taube, yellow in color, flying over the North Sea between England and the continent has been sighted and reported by English vessels again and again and each flight has coincided with some unexpected move on the part of the enemy. Once it was seen just before the raid at Falmouth, again before the Zeppelin visit to Sandringham.”
“A yellow dove!” said Lady Kipshaven. “A bird of ill omen, surely.”
“But how could such an aëroplane leave the shores of England without being remarked?” asked Kipshaven.
“Oh,” laughed Sandys, “answer me that and we have the solution of the problem. A strict watch is being kept on the coasts, and the government employees—the postmen, police, secret-service men of every town and village from here to the Shetlands are on the lookout—but not a glimpse have they had of him, not a sign of his arrival or departure, but only last week he was reported by a destroyer flying toward the English coast.”
“Most extraordinary!” from Lady Kipshaven.
“It’s a large machine?” asked Rizzio.
“Larger than any aëroplane ever built in Europe. They say Curtis, the American, was building a thousand horsepower machine at Hammondsport—in the States. This one must be at least as large as that.”
“But surely such a machine could not be hidden in England for any length of time without discovery.”
“It would seem so—but there you are. The main point is that he hasn’t been discovered and that its pilot is here in England—ready to fly across the sea with our military secrets when he gets them.”
“D—n him!” growled Kipshaven quite audibly, a sentiment which echoed so truly in the hearts of those present that it passed without comment.
“The captain of a merchant steamer who saw it quite plainly reported that the power of the machine was simply amazing—that it flew at about six thousand feet and was lost to sight in an incredibly brief time. In short, my friends, the Yellow Dove is one of the miracles of the day—and its pilot one of its mysteries.”
“But our aviation men—can they do nothing?”
“What? Chase rainbows? Where shall their voyage begin and where end? He’s over the North Sea one minute and in Belgium the next. Our troops in the trenches think he’s a phantom. They say even the bombs he drops are phantoms. They are heard to explode but nobody has ever been