It needed no second sight to discover that both he and Gertrude were deeply interested in each other. Garretson was what Broadway would call “a live one,” and, though there is nothing essentially wrong in that, I fancied that I detected, now and then, an almost maternal solicitude on the part of her stepmother, who seemed to be watching both the young man and her husband alternately. Once Jackson and Mrs. Snedden exchanged glances. There seemed to be some understanding between them.
The time to return to the works was approaching, and we all rose. Somehow, Gertrude and Garretson seemed naturally to gravitate toward the door together.
Some distance from the house there was a large barn. Part of it had been turned into a garage, where Garretson kept a fast car. Jackson, also, had a roadster. In fact, in this new community, with its superabundant new wealth, everybody had a car.
Kennedy and I sauntered out after the rest. As we turned an angle of the house we came suddenly upon Garretson in his racer, talking to Gertrude. The crunch of the gravel under our feet warned them before we saw them, but not before we could catch a glimpse of a warning finger on the rosy lips of Gertrude. As she saw us she blushed ever so slightly.
“You’ll be late!” she cried, hastily. “Mr. Jackson has been gone five minutes.”
“On foot,” returned Garretson, nonchalantly. “I’ll overtake him in thirty seconds.” Nevertheless, he did not wait longer, but swung up the road at a pace which was the admiration of all speed-loving Nitropolitans.
Craig had ordered our taxicab driver to stop for us after lunch, and, without exciting suspicion, managed to stow away the larger part of the contents of our grips in his car.
Still without openly showing our connection with MacLeod, Kennedy sought out the manager of the works, and, though scores of correspondents and reporters from various newspapers had vainly applied for permission to inspect the plant, somehow we seemed to receive the freedom of the place and without exciting suspicion. Craig’s first move was to look the plant over. As we approached it our attention was instantly attracted to the numerous one-story galvanized-iron buildings that appeared to stretch endlessly in every direction. They seemed to be of a temporary nature, though the power-plants, offices, and other necessary buildings were very substantially built. The framework of the factory-buildings was nothing but wood, covered by iron sheathing, and even the sides seemed to be removable. The floors, however, were of concrete.
“They serve their purpose well,” observed Kennedy, as we picked our way about. “Explosions at powder-mills are frequent, anyhow. After an explosion there is very little debris to clear away, as you may imagine. These buildings are easily repaired or replaced, and they keep a large force of men for these purposes, as well as materials for any emergency.”
One felt instinctively the hazard of the employment. Everywhere were signs telling what not and what to do. One that stuck in my mind was, “It is better to be careful than sorry.” Throughout the plant at frequent intervals were first-aid stations with kits for all sorts of accidents, including respirators, for workmen were often overcome by ether or alcohol fumes. Everything was done to minimize the hazard, yet one could not escape the conviction that human life and limb were as much a cost of production in this industry as fuel and raw material.
Once, in our wanderings about the plant, I recall we ran across both Garretson and Jackson in one of the offices. They did not see us, but seemed to be talking very earnestly about something. What it was we could not guess, but this time it seemed to be Jackson who was doing most of the talking. Kennedy watched them as they parted.
“There’s something peculiar under the surface with those people at the boarding-house,” was all he observed. “Come; over there, about an eighth of a mile, I think I see evidences of the latest of the explosions. Let’s look at it.”
MacLeod had evidently reasoned that, sooner of later, Kennedy would appear in this part of the grounds, and as we passed one of the shops he joined us.
“You mentioned something about rumors of poisonous gases,” hinted Craig, as we walked along.
“Yes,” assented MacLeod; “I don’t know what there is in it. I suppose you know that there is a very poisonous gas, carbon monoxide, or carbonic oxide, formed in considerable quantity by the explosion of several of the powders commonly used in shells. The gas has the curious power of combining with the blood and refusing to let go, thus keeping out the oxygen necessary for life. It may be that that is what accounts for what we’ve seen—that it is actual poisoning to death of men not killed by the immediate explosion.”
We had reached the scene of the previous day’s disaster. No effort had yet been made to clear it up. Kennedy went over it carefully. What it was he found I do not know, but he had not spent much time before he turned to me.
“Walter,” he directed, “I wish you would go back to the office near the gate, where I left that paraphernalia we brought down. Carry it over—let me see—there’s an open space there on that knoll. I’ll join you there.”
Whatever was in the packages was both bulky and heavy, and I was glad to reach the hillside he had indicated.
Craig was waiting for me there with MacLeod, and at once opened the packages. From them he took a thin steel rod, which he set up in the center of the open space. To it he attached a frame and to the frame what looked like four reversed megaphones. Attached to the frame, which was tubular, was an oak box with a little arrangement of hard rubber and metal which fitted into the ears. For some time Kennedy’s face wore a set, far-away expression, as if he were studying something.
“The explosions seem always to occur in the middle of the afternoon,” observed MacLeod, fidgeting apprehensively.
Kennedy motioned petulantly for silence. Then suddenly he pulled the tubes out of his ears and gazed about sharply.
“There’s something in the air!” he cried. “I can hear it!”
MacLeod and I strained our eyes. There was nothing visible.
“This is an anti-aircraft listening-post, such as the French use,” explained Craig, hurriedly. “Between the horns and the microphone in the box you can catch the hum of an engine, even when it is muffled. If there’s an aeroplane or a Zeppelin about, this thing would locate it.”
Still, there was nothing that we could see, though now the sound was just perceptible to the ear if one strained his attention a bit. I listened. It was plain in the detector; yet nothing was visible. What strange power could it be that we could not see or feel in broad daylight?
Just then came a low rumbling, and then a terrific roar from the direction of the plant. We swung about in time to see a huge cloud of debris lifted literally into the air above the tree-tops and dropped to earth again. The silence that succeeded the explosion was eloquent. The phantom destroyer had delivered his blow again.
“The distillery—where we make the denatured alcohol!” cried MacLeod, gazing with tense face as from other buildings, we could see men pouring forth, panic-stricken, and the silence was punctured by shouts. Kennedy bent over his detector.
“That same mysterious buzzing,” he muttered, “only fainter.”
Together we hastened now toward the distillery, another of those corrugated-iron buildings. It had been completely demolished. Here and there lay a dark, still mass. I shuddered. They were men!
As we ran toward the ruin we crossed a baseball-field which the company had given the men. I looked back for Kennedy. He had paused at the wire backstop behind the catcher. Something caught in the wires interested him. By the time I reached him he had secured it—a long, slender metal tube, cleverly weighted so as to fall straight.
“Not a hundred per cent. of hits, evidently,” he muttered. “Still, one was enough.”
“What is it?” asked MacLeod.
“An incendiary pastille. On contact, the nose burns away anything it hits, goes right