Thus far it was merely a rather straightforward problem a dash over the mountain passes by skilled aviators. But where could the latter be found? Brassey took the situation in hand.
"Get Inspector Ransome on the telephone, please," he requested of the elder Brathwaite.
"Who?"
"Inspector Ransome of Scotland Yard. Oh, yes; I forgot for the moment. He is J. B. Smith here. Never mind why. Ask for Mr. Smith at the Inn."
Ransome joined them in ten minutes. Without a word he listened closely to Shane's bald recital of the facts. When Shane finished, Ransome reached for the telephone.
"The planes will be here in two hours," he said. Over the telephone he asked for long distance. To the high official at the far end, he gave his name, stated the facts, and added that the matter was one of extreme urgency, not only for the lost explorers, but more particularly for the Government of India. The official listened. He knew who Ransome was, and he also knew that when the Inspector said a case was urgent, it was. He had frequently had dealings at second hand through Jamieson, his own Chief of the Secret Service, with Scotland Yard and Inspector Ransome.
"The planes will be at Srinagar in two hours," he answered. "How many do you need?"
"Make it five, in case of emergencies. Your best long-distance army planes and your most capable crews."
"They will be there. Goodbye."
Less than the promised two hours later, five reconnaissance planes roared down the pass, giving the quiet little town of Srinagar its first excitement in a month. Half an hour later they were soaring toward the seemingly impenetrable barrier behind the town, well on their way to the unknown.
Over Brassey's protests, Shane had been lifted into the first plane – the leader. It was necessary, he said, that he go with the aviators, as he alone had some knowledge, however sketchy, of Vartan's map and of his leader's intentions.
The search proved easier than they had anticipated. The mountain defile where the three had gone on alone was easily found. Reaching it, the fliers saw what they mistook for a terrific volcanic eruption directly ahead of them. The leader was about to turn back, when Shane advised him to go forward and see what, if anything but a huge cauldron of molten lava, lay behind the streaming pillars of crimson fire and dense soot.
"That wasn't there when the porters turned back," he explained. "It must have burst out recently. For all we know, our friends may have been trapped by the eruption. Better keep on, if you can get above the heat."
They surmounted the pillars of fire, although it seemed at every instant as if the tanks must explode. Once over the barrier of fire, they had but small choice in the matter of searching. If any human beings were still alive in that inferno, they must be marooned on the last island of scorched grass, less than five miles across, almost in the exact centre of the flaming ellipse. The planes descended to the two hundred foot level, and began methodically circling the island in ever narrowing orbits until at last, when they had all but decided that their search was futile, Shane spied the three frantic figures signalling through the smoke. The grass and shrubs on the rim of the island had already burst into flame. Only three of the planes risked the easy landing; the other two stayed aloft, as a reserve in case of accidents.
Shane's was the first down. Marjorie, naturally, was the first whom the aviators tried to rescue. But she refused.
"My life is of no consequence," she gasped, "beside the danger. Oh," she burst out, "Don't ask me to explain. This may all be a dying dream. Are you Mr. Shane, or am I out of my mind?"
"I'm Shane. What do you want me to do?"
"Take charge of Jamieson."
"Jamieson?" he repeated. "There is no man by that name with you.
"There is!" she insisted. "Don't doubt. We must go before the fire makes it impossible for the planes to rise. Have you a revolver?"
"No. Perhaps the pilot has. Ask him."
The pilot was armed. On Marjorie's frantic appeal he strode back to the plane and slipped his automatic into Shane's hand.
"She seems to know what she is talking about. Is that the man you are to take?"
"Yes!" Shane shouted. He had seen William Arbold, his spying old White Horse of Brassey House.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded when Jamieson was hustled up to the plane by the pilot.
"Keeping an eye on your friends," Jamieson retorted coolly. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Alfred Jamieson, Chief of the India Secret Service."
"Climb in!" the pilot ordered, shoving Jamieson before him.
"Wait for the others," Shane implored.
"They'll be taken care of. Ever hear about carrying all your eggs in one basket? There goes number two now with the other man. Number three is off with the woman. Sit tight. We're off."
* * *
When the five planes left Srinagar, Ransome and Brassey walked back together toward the inn.
"Charles," said Ransome, "let us go for a long walk before dinner. I have something to tell you before those planes return."
"I shall be delighted, John," Brassey assented. "That is, if I can think of anything but the awful thing I have done to poor Marjorie. She should never have gone. But she did plead so to be allowed to go as observer that I didn't have the heart to refuse her after all the six years of her faithful, intelligent work at Brassey House."
"Don't worry, Charles. These men who have gone to look for her are the very cream of what is left of the British Air Force in India. With Shane along as guide, they will surely find our three. And Vartan, we know, is an explorer of the first rank. Would he lead the others into certain death? Not he. The party may be in desperate straits, but they are still going forward. Buck up, Charles."
"I'll try," Brassey promised. "But I'll never sleep again till I see those three back, safe and sound."
"You will before long," Ransome assured him. "What I wanted to talk about now is something different. I suspect, Charles, you think I have messed this case. Perhaps I have, but I rather think not. At any time in the past eight or ten years, our men might easily have trapped one or more of the minor spies who have infested Brassey House. And what would it have gained for us if we had? Nothing, precisely nothing. These small sneak spies do not even know who their real employers are. To catch one, and promise him immunity for turning State's evidence, would get us nowhere. The man – or woman – would merely betray his or her immediate superior, who in turn might be induced to give away the nebulous authority next higher in the scale, and so it would go. At each step, the difficulty of tracing the clue would multiply by at least a hundred."
"I see that it would be impossible," Brassey agreed readily.
"It would be worse than impossible, Charles. Each false move on our parts would only make the enemy bolder."
"Who is the enemy?" Charles demanded.
"On my word of honor, Charles, I have no definite idea, except one. He is not a private criminal. Nor is he employed by dishonest competitors with only limited funds at their disposal. That, to my mind, is the most puzzling feature of the whole case. And it always has been, until recently. We are fighting an organization of at least national scope. Why? There, I confess, I am completely at sea. What possible motive can our enemies have for trying to rediscover the origin of poor James' spores? You have guessed, of course, that such is their ultimate object?"
"Long ago," Charles acknowledged ruefully. "But, as you ask, why? Even if they do succeed in tapping the true source of those remarkable flowers, our enemies would never dare to put them on the trade. The theft would be too brazen, too easily traced."
"Would it?" Ransome objected. "Suppose some firm in Holland – the great competitor of England in the plant business – does actually put out a thousand new varieties next fall. What can you do, although you are morally certain that they have been stolen from you? Indirectly lifted, of course. Could you go to court and swear that these new varieties were identical with some that you had already grown, but not propagated, from your brother's s
eeds?"
"I suppose not," Brassey admitted, seeing the obvious point. "But, John, do you really imagine commercial rivalry is at the bottom of all these persecutions?"
"Not for a moment," Ransome asserted positively. "And, what is more, I saw, almost from the first, that some deeper motive is under the queer actions of our enemies. But, as I said, I cannot for the very life of me imagine what it may be. For the moment I am content to concentrate on catching the higher ups, and finding out what is at the bottom of it all. I am not merely trying to excuse my seeming delays when I tell you that I have deliberately let the small fry go. I did so from convictions and policy. Some day, I knew, one of these underlings would overstep the mark of caution, and put the main clue in my hand."
"And one of these inferiors has done so?" Brassey asked dubiously.
"Yes," Ransome declared. "Miss West, in rashly – if somewhat humanly – cabling me that I was a fathead, has delivered at least one of the men at the top into my hands. I do not care tuppence where Miss West is now, or what she is doing, or where she may turn up in the future. She is of no importance whatever in this case."
"But," Brassey protested, "you told me the other day that she had come to you on the great Jamieson's personal recommendation."
"Precisely," Ransome snapped. "On the great Jamieson's unqualified recommendation. Miss West has gone wrong. She acknowledges it herself. Like the incompetent she is, she goes out of her way to tell me, with an insult, that she is on the enemy's side. What is the obvious inference?"
"That not only Miss West, but also the great Jamieson is not to be trusted," Brassey answered.
"That, I admit," Ransome replied, "is the most obvious conclusion. But it is not the only one. In a case of this difficulty, one cannot jump at the first way out. Jamieson, as I see him, may be one of three things. First, he himself may actually be in the employ of the men above, and know what he is. If so, he is a scoundrel of the first water. Second, he may have been duped by the enemy into planting Miss West at Scotland Yard to work on your case. In that event, Jamieson, if he is any good at all, should be able easily to trace the fatal connections clear back to their source. Third, Jamieson may be, after all, rather stupid – so dense in fact, that he has fallen an easy victim to a comparative amateur like Miss West. If this is so, the India Secret Service will have no further use for him. Nor will I."
"Which do you favor, John?"
"At present my mind is quite open. I shall not force an opinion until I see Jamieson."
"But my dear John," Brassey protested, "Arbold – your Jamieson – disappeared from our laboratories with Miss West, who has proved herself not only foolish but dishonest."
"Certainly. She, not Jamieson, stole the slides."
"But why, if what you say is true, did Jamieson follow her?"
Ransome laughed goodnaturedly. "Just think," he said, "of what had happened. Jamieson's little arrangement for keeping an eye and an ear on your employees had been discovered. You remember, of course, that our young friend Vartan impetuously revealed the dictaphone. Could Jamieson have stayed longer with you? It would all have had to come out that he was an agent of Scotland Yard, and his usefulness to you, no less than to us, would have been destroyed. There was one thing to be done, and only one – get him out of London at once. This I did immediately.
"The apparent disaster merely hastened matters a day or two. I had intended from the very beginning that Jamieson should accompany your expedition as my observer, not as yours. With him following events in the field, I felt confident of learning at last who our enemies are, and what they hope to gain. If your Arbold – my Jamieson – had not been compelled by circumstances to sever his connections with Brassey House so suddenly, he would have resigned the evening before Vartan and Shane sailed for Bombay. By going overland to Brindisi he beat your men by several days. I had already made the necessary arrangements with Brathwaites' to employ the headman whom I should recommend, without telling them, of course, of my true object. I merely said that I was doing this at your request."
"Well!"
"Now, Charles, don't be annoyed. Would I interfere with your methods of marketing plants and seeds? You know I would have more sense."
"I see!" said Brassey. "Every man master of his own trade. However," he continued gravely, "may I ask whether your agents ever discovered a tangible clue in all the years they were at Brassey House? Jamieson, remember, was in my employ for ten years."
"They did," Ransome asserted. "Or rather, Jamieson did. Miss West also contributed. I will say this for Miss West," he continued, "she never made the mistake of attempting to block any of Arbold's investigations, but cooperated most efficiently with him in trying to make the suspect betray herself."
Brassey stared at his friend. "Herself?" he echoed. "You mean that one of the women of my staff may be the criminal?"
"Why not? Miss West deceived you. Now," he went on soberly, laying a hand on Brassey's arm, "don't be offended, old chap, at what I am going to say. Jamieson tried for the whole six years that Miss Driscott was at Brassey House to make her betray who and what she is."
"But I don't understand," Brassey muttered in bewilderment. "Miss Driscott came to us from one of the great London dailies. Her recommendations were unimpeachable."
"Like Miss West's," Ransome reminded him.
Brassey halted and faced his friend.
"John," he declared, "if it is the last thing I say, Marjorie is innocent."
"It is not yet a question of her guilt or innocence," Ransome said slowly. "May I ask you, has Miss Driscott always impressed you as being what she represented herself to be, neither more nor less?"
"I don't understand, John," Brassey faltered.
"Let me put it concretely. Is she of English birth?"
"Of course. She received most of her education at a first rate girls' school in Kensington. The botany she needed for our business she picked up readily in the first two years with us. She had taken the usual high grade courses in the sciences that are offered at schools of the calibre she attended."
"She was in Kensington two years," Ransome mused. "We checked that. And she entered as the ward of a physician in the Midlands. Unfortunately, however, the physician had died before we began our investigation of him, and his few living relatives seemed to have vanished – to America, we learned. Has it ever struck you," he asked quietly, "that Miss Driscott is five or six years older than she admits?"
"What of it?" Brassey demanded. "I hold nothing against a girl who wishes to appear a little younger than she is."
"Nor do I, Charles. But, consider this. That exclusive Kensington school does not let a pupil remain as a pupil a day after she is eighteen years of age. No wonder Miss Driscott made a brilliant record, particularly in English and the biological sciences. She was twenty-three years of age when she entered, to take the last two years of work. I acknowledge that she is of unusual intelligence. Don't you?"
Brassey nodded emphatically.
"Well, what would such a young woman do in her higher school work if she were already educated when she began the last more difficult stage? I tell you, Charles, Marjorie Driscott was highly educated before she ever entered that Kensington school. She went there merely to gain a foothold on English manners and customs that would finally land her, without the least suspicion, as your publicity agent and confidential secretary. When she applied you couldn't resist her. Nor could I have done so, when she proved that not only was she a skilled journalist, but an extremely intelligent young woman with an amateur's love for botany in all its branches. Miss Driscott, when she applied for your position, was a highly trained girl in more senses than one."
Charles suddenly sat down on a heap of gravel by the roadside.
"If what you say is true," he groaned, "she has deceived me completely. But," he added defiantly, "I stick to what I said. Marjorie is innocent."
"Until proved guilty," Ransome gravely concurred. "Only of what I have told you. She is not English by
birth, and she is playing a part."
"What part?" Brassey whispered.
"As in Jamieson's case, so in Miss Driscott's. Only by keeping an entirely unbiased mind can I hope to make progress. I hold no hypothesis whatever concerning her motives."
"Are you sure," Brassey asked, clutching at a slender thread, "that she is not English?"
"Positively. The man whom I consider one of the greatest living experts on human speech, convinced himself in a month that Miss Driscott's native tongue – the language she learned as a baby – was not English, although closely allied to it. The quality of certain vowel sounds betrayed her to an expert, where they would have passed unnoticed by even a close ordinary observer. English must also have been spoken in her home, as it is in some countries of continental Europe. But her tongue had first mastered the broader, softer pronunciation of those vowels and diphthongs."
"What was her native language?" Brassey demanded, fearing the answer.
"Dutch."
"And who is this expert on whom you rely?"
"Jamieson. In his work with the India Secret Service he has made a minutely scientific study of human speech, in order to overcome the slight, almost imperceptible flaws on his own pronunciation of difficult words in a score or more of the native Indian dialects. As I said, Jamieson's verdict on a technical matter of this kind is beyond dispute. You must accept this as a fact, Charles. Jamieson, in his other capacity as a private citizen, has been elected to some of the most exclusive linguistic academies in the world."
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