A curious episode was that of the plans of the Clyde Defences.  It was a February evening.  Wet, tired, and hungry, I turned the long grey touring car into the yard of the old “White Hart,” at Salisbury, and descended with eager anticipation of a big fire and comfortable dinner.

My mechanic Bennett and I had been on the road since soon after dawn, and we yet had many miles to cover.  Two months ago I had mounted the car at the garage in Wardour Street and set out upon a long and weary ten-thousand-mile journey in England, not for pleasure, as you may well imagine ­but purely upon business.  My business, to be exact, was reconnoitring, from a military stand-point, all the roads and by-roads lying between the Tyne and the Thames as well as certain districts south-west of London, in order to write the book upon similar lines to The Invasion of 1910.

For two months we had lived upon the road.  Sometimes Ray and Vera had travelled with me.  When Bennett and I had started it was late and pleasant autumn.  Now it was bleak, black winter, and hardly the kind of weather to travel twelve or fourteen hours daily in an open car.  Day after day, week after week, the big “sixty” had roared along, ploughing the mud of those ever-winding roads of England until we had lost all count of the days of the week; my voluminous note-books were gradually being filled with valuable data, and the nerves of both of us were becoming so strained that we were victims of insomnia.  Hence at night, when we could not sleep, we travelled.

In a great portfolio in the back of the car I carried the six-inch ordnance map of the whole of the east of England divided into many sections, and upon these I was carefully marking out, as result of my survey, the weak points of our land in case an enemy invaded our shores from the North Sea.  All telegraphs, telephones, and cables from London to Germany and Holland I was especially noting, for would not the enemy’s emissaries, before they attempted to land, seize all means of communication with the metropolis?  Besides this I took note of places where food could be obtained, lists of shops, and collected a quantity of other valuable information.

In this work I had been assisted by half a dozen of the highest officers of the Intelligence Department of the War Office, as well as other well-known experts ­careful, methodical work prior to writing my forecast of what must happen to our beloved country in case of invasion.  The newspapers had referred to my long journey of inquiry, and often when I arrived in a town, our car, smothered in mud, yet its powerful engines running like a clock, was the object of public curiosity, while Bennett, with true chauffeur-like imperturbability, sat immovable, utterly regardless of the interest we created.  He was a gentleman-driver, and the best man at the wheel I ever had.

When we were in a hurry he would travel nearly a mile a minute over an open road, sounding his siren driven off the fly-wheel, and scenting police-traps, with the happy result that we were never held up for exceeding the limit.  We used to take it in turns to drive ­three hours at a time.

On that particular night, when we entered Salisbury from Wincanton Road, having come up from Exeter, it had been raining unceasingly all day, and we presented a pretty plight in our yellow fishermen’s oilskins ­which we had bought weeks before in King’s Lynn as the only means of keeping dry ­dripping wet and smothered to our very eyes in mud.

After a hasty wash I entered the coffee-room, and found that I was the sole diner save a short, funny, little old lady in black bonnet and cape, and a young, rather pretty, well-dressed girl, whom I took to be her daughter, seated at a table a little distance away.

Both glanced at me as they entered, and I saw that ere I was half through my meal their interest in me had suddenly increased.  Without doubt, the news of my arrival had gone round the hotel, and the waiter had informed the pair of my identity.

It was then eight o’clock, and I had arranged with Bennett that after a rest, we would push forward at half-past ten by Marlborough, as far as Swindon, on our way to Birmingham.

The waiter had brought me a couple of telegrams from Ray telling me good news of another inquiry he was instituting, and having finished my meal I was seated alone by the smoking-room fire enjoying a cigarette and liqueur.  Indeed, I had almost fallen asleep when the waiter returned, saying: 

“Excuse me, sir, but there’s a lady outside in great distress.  She wants to speak to you for a moment, and asks if she may come in.”  He presented a card, and the name upon it was “Mrs. Henry Bingham.”

Rather surprised, I nevertheless consented to see her, and in a few moments the door reopened and the younger of the two ladies I had seen at dinner entered.

She bowed to me as I rose, and then, evidently in a state of great agitation, she said: 

“I must apologise for disturbing you, only ­only I thought perhaps you would be generous enough, when you have heard of our difficulty, to grant my mother and I a favour.”

“If I can be of any assistance to you, I shall be most delighted, I’m sure,” I answered, as her big grey eyes met mine.

“Well,” she said, looking me straight in the face, “the fact is that our car has broken down ­something wrong with the clutch, our man says ­and we can’t get any further to-night.  We are on our way to Swindon ­to my husband, who has met with an accident and is in the hospital, but ­but, unfortunately, there is no train to-night.  Your chauffeur has told our man that you are just leaving for Swindon, and my mother and I have been wondering ­well ­whether we might encroach upon your good nature and beg seats in your car?”

“You are quite welcome to travel with me, of course,” I replied without hesitation.  “But I fear that on such a night it will hardly be pleasant to travel in an open car.”

“Oh, we don’t mind that a bit,” she assured me.  “We have lots of waterproofs and things.  It is really most kind of you.  I had a telegram at four o’clock this afternoon that my husband had been taken to the hospital for operation, and naturally I am most anxious to be at his side.”

“Naturally,” I said.  “I regret very much that you should have such cause for distress.  Let us start at once.  I shall be ready in ten minutes.”

While she went back to her mother, I went out into the yard where the head-lights of my big “sixty” were gleaming.

“We shall have two lady passengers to Swindon, Bennett,” I said, as my chauffeur threw away his cigarette and approached me.  “What kind of car have the ladies?”

“A twenty-four.  It’s in the garage up yonder.  The clutch won’t hold, it seems.  But their man’s a foreigner, and doesn’t speak much English.  I suppose I’d better pack our luggage tighter, so as to give the ladies room.”

“Yes.  Do so.  And let’s get on the road as soon as possible.”

“Very well, sir,” responded the man as he entered the car and began packing our suit-cases together while almost immediately the two ladies emerged, the elder one, whose voice was harsh and squeaky, and who was, I noticed, very deformed, thanking me profusely.

We stowed them away as comfortably as possible, and just as the cathedral chimes rang out half-past ten, the ladies gave parting injunctions to their chauffeur, and we drew out of the yard.

I apologised for the dampness and discomfort of an open car, and briefly explained my long journey and its object.  But both ladies ­the name of the queer little old widow I understood to be Sandford ­only laughed, and reassured me that they were all right.

That night I drove myself.  With the exhaust opened and roaring, and the siren shrieking, we sped along through the dark, rainy night up by old Sarum, through Netheravon, and across Overton Heath into Marlborough without once changing speed or speaking with my passengers.  As we came down the hill from Ogbourne, I had to pull up suddenly for a farmer’s cart, and turned, asking the pair behind how they were faring.

As I did so I noticed that both of them seemed considerably flurried, but attributed it to the high pace we had been travelling when I had so suddenly pulled up on rounding the bend.

Three-quarters of an hour later I deposited them at their destination, the “Goddard Arms,” in Old Swindon, and, descending, received their profuse thanks, the elder lady giving me her card with an address in Earl’s Court Road, Kensington, and asking me to call upon her when in London.

It was then half an hour past midnight, but Bennett and I resolved to push forward as far as Oxford, which we did, arriving at the “Mitre” about half-past one, utterly fagged and worn out.

Next day was brighter, and we proceeded north to Birmingham and across once again to the east coast, where the bulk of my work lay.

About a fortnight went by.  With the assistance of two well-known staff-officers I had been reconnoitring the country around Beccles, in Suffolk, which we had decided upon as a most important strategical point, and one morning I found myself at that old-fashioned hotel “The Cups,” at Colchester, taking a day’s rest.  The two officers had returned to London, and I was again alone.

Out in the garage I found a rather smart, good-looking man in navy serge chatting with Bennett and admiring my car.  My chauffeur, with pardonable pride, had been telling him of our long journey, and as I approached, the stranger informed me of his own enthusiasm as a motorist.

“Curiously enough,” he added, “I have been wishing to meet you, in order to thank you for your kindness to my mother and sister the other night at Salisbury.  My name is Sandford ­Charles Sandford ­and if I’m not mistaken we are members of the same club ­White’s.”

“Are we?” I exclaimed.  “Then I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

We lounged together for half an hour, smoking and chatting, until presently he said: 

“I live out at Edwardstone, about ten miles from here.  Why not come out and dine with me to-night?  My place isn’t very extensive, but it’s cosy enough for a bachelor.  I’d feel extremely honoured if you would.  I’m all alone.  Do come.”

Cosmopolitan that I am, yet I am not prone to accept the invitations of strangers.  Nevertheless this man was not altogether a stranger, for was he not a member of my own club?  Truth to tell, I had become bored by the deadly dullness of country hotels, therefore I was glad enough to accept his proffered hospitality and spend a pleasant evening.

“Very well,” he said.  “I’ll send a wire to my housekeeper, and I’ll pilot you in your car to my place this evening.  We’ll start at seven, and dine at eight ­if that will suit you?”

And so it was arranged.

Bennett had the whole of the day to go through the car and do one or two necessary repairs, while Sandford and myself idled about the town.  My companion struck me as an exceedingly pleasant fellow, who, having travelled very extensively, now preferred a quiet existence in the country, with a little hunting and a little shooting in due season, to the dinners, theatres, and fevered haste of London life.

The evening proved a very dark one with threatening rain as we turned out of the yard of “The Cups,” Sandford and I seated behind.  My friend directed Bennett from time to time, and soon we found ourselves out on the Sudbury road.  We passed through a little place which I knew to be Heyland, and then turned off to the right, across what seemed to be a wide stretch of bleak, open country.

Over the heath we went, our head-lights glaring far before us, for about two miles when my friend called to Bennett: 

“Turn to the left at the cross-roads.”

And a few moments later we were travelling rather cautiously up a rough by-road, at the end of which we came to a long, old-fashioned house ­a farm-house evidently, transformed into a residence.

The door was opened by a middle-aged, red-faced man-servant, and as I stepped within the small hall hung with foxes’ masks, brushes, and other trophies, my friend wished me a hearty welcome to his home.

The dining-room proved to be an old-fashioned apartment panelled from floor to ceiling.  The table, set for two, bore a fine old silver candelabra, a quantity of antique plate, and, adorned with flowers, was evidently the table of a man who was comfortably off.

We threw off our heavy coats and made ourselves cosy beside the fire when the servant, whom my host addressed as Henry, brought in the soup.  Therefore we went to the table and commenced.

The meal proved a well-cooked and well-chosen one, and I congratulated him upon his cook.

“I’m forty, and for twenty years I was constantly on the move,” he remarked, with a laugh.  “Nowadays I’m glad to be able to settle down in England.”

A moment later I heard the sound of a car leaving the house.

“Is that my car?” I asked, rather surprised.

“Probably your man is taking it round to the back in order to put it under cover.  Hark! it has started to rain.”

To me, however, the sound, growing fainter, was very much as though Bennett had driven the car away.

The wines which Henry served so quietly and sedately were of the best.  But both my host and myself drank little.

Sandford was telling me of the strange romance concerning his sister Ellen and young Bingham ­a man who had come into eight thousand a year from his uncle, and only a few days later had met with an accident in Swindon, having been knocked down by a train at a level-crossing.

Presently, after dessert, our conversation ran upon ports and their vintages, when suddenly my host remarked: 

“I don’t know whether you are a connoisseur of brandies, but I happen to have a couple of rather rare vintages.  Let’s try them.”

I confessed I knew but little about brandies.

“Then I’ll teach you how to test them in future,” he laughed, adding, “Henry, bring up those three old cognacs, a bottle of ordinary brandy, and some liqueur-glasses.”

In a few minutes a dozen little glasses made their appearance on a tray, together with four bottles of brandy, three unlabelled, while the fourth bore the label of a well-known brand.

“It is not generally known, I think, that one cannot test brandy with any degree of accuracy by the palate,” he said, removing his cigar.

“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

“Well, I’ll show you,” he went on, and taking four glasses in a row he poured a little spirit out of each of the bottles into the bottoms of the glasses.  This done, he twisted each glass round in order to wet the inside with the spirit, and the surplus he emptied into his finger-bowl.  Then, handing me two, he said:  “Just hold one in each hand till they’re warm.  So.”

And taking the remaining two he held one in the hollow of each hand.

For a couple or three minutes we held them thus while he chatted about the various vintages.  Then we placed them in a row.

“Now,” he said, “take up each one separately and smell it.”

I did so, and found a most pleasant perfume ­each, however, quite separate and distinct, as different as eau-de-Cologne is from lavender water.

“This,” he said, after sniffing at one glass, “is 1815 ­Waterloo year ­a magnificent vintage.  And this,” he went on, handing me the second glass, “is 1829 ­very excellent, but quite a distinct perfume, you notice.  The third is 1864 ­also good.  Of the 1815 I very fortunately have two bottles.  Bellamy, in Pall Mall, has three bottles, and there are perhaps four bottles in all Paris.  That is all that’s left of it.  The fourth ­smell it ­is the ordinary brandy of commerce.”

I did so, but the odour was nauseating after the sweet and distinct perfume of the other three.

“Just try the 1815,” he urged, carefully pouring out about a third of a glass of the precious pale gold liquid and handing it to me.

I sipped it, finding it exceedingly pleasant to the palate.  So old was it that it seemed to have lost all its strength.  It was a really delicious liqueur ­the liqueur of a gourmet, and assuredly a fitting conclusion to that excellent repast.

“I think I’ll have the ’64,” he said, pouring out a glass and swallowing it with all the gusto of a man whose chief delight was the satisfaction of his stomach.

I took a cigarette from the big silver box he handed me, and I stretched out my hand for the matches....  Beyond that, curiously enough, I recollect nothing else.

But stay!  Yes, I do.

I remember seeing, as though rising from out a hazy grey mist, a woman’s face ­the countenance of a very pretty girl, about eighteen, with big blue wide-open eyes and very fair silky hair ­a girl, whose eyes bore in them a hideous look of inexpressible horror.

Next instant the blackness of unconsciousness fell upon me.

When I recovered I was amazed to find myself in bed, with the yellow wintry sunlight streaming into the low, old-fashioned room.  For some time ­how long I know not ­I lay there staring at the diamond-paned window straight before me, vaguely wondering what had occurred.

A sound at last struck the right chord of my memory ­the sound of my host’s voice exclaiming cheerily: 

“How do you feel, old chap?  Better, I hope, after your long sleep.  Do you know it’s nearly two o’clock in the afternoon?”

Two o’clock!

After a struggle I succeeded in sitting up in bed.

“What occurred?” I managed to gasp.  “I ­I don’t exactly remember.”

“Why nothing, my dear fellow,” declared my friend, laughing.  “You were a bit tired last night, that’s all.  So I thought I wouldn’t disturb you.”

“Where’s Bennett?”

“Downstairs with the car, waiting till you feel quite right again.”

I then realised for the first time that I was still dressed.  Only my boots and collar and tie had been removed.

Much puzzled, and wondering whether it were actually possible that I had taken too much wine, I rose to my feet and slowly assumed my boots.

Was the man standing before me a friend, or was he an enemy?

I recollected most distinctly sampling the brandy, but beyond that ­absolutely nothing.

At my host’s orders Henry brought me up a refreshing cup of tea and after a quarter of an hour or so, during which Sandford declared that “such little annoying incidents occur in the life of every man,” I descended and found Bennett waiting with the car before the door.

As I grasped my host’s hand in farewell he whispered confidentially.

“Let’s say nothing about it in future.  I’ll call and see you in town in a week or two ­if I may.”

Mechanically I declared that I should be delighted, and mounting into the car we glided down the drive to the road.

My brain was awhirl, and I was in no mood to talk.  Therefore I sat with the frosty air blowing upon my fevered brow as we travelled back to Colchester.

“I didn’t know you intended staying the night, sir,” Bennett ventured to remark just before we entered the town.

“I didn’t, Bennett.”

“But you sent word to me soon after we arrived, telling me to return at noon to-day.  So I went back to ‘The Cups,’ and spent all this morning on the engines.”

“Who gave you that message?” I asked quickly.

“Mr. Sandford’s man, Henry.”

I sat in silence.  What could it mean?  What mystery was there?

As an abstemious man I felt quite convinced that I had not taken too much wine.  A single liqueur-glass of brandy certainly could never have produced such an effect upon me.  And strangely enough that girl’s face, so shadowy, so sweet, and yet so distorted by horror, was ever before me.

Three weeks after the curious incident, having concluded my survey, I found myself back in Guilford Street, my journey at last ended.  Pleasant, indeed, it was to sit again at one’s own fireside after those wet, never-ending muddy roads upon which I had lived for so long, and very soon I settled down to arrange the mass of material I had collected and write my book.

A few days after my return, in order to redeem my promise and to learn more of Charles Sandford, I called at the address of the queer old hump-backed widow in Earl’s Court Road.

To my surprise, I found the house in question empty, with every evidence of its having been to let for a year or more.  There was no mistake in the number; it was printed upon her card.  This discovery caused me increasing wonder.

What did it all mean?

Through many weeks I sat in my rooms in Bloomsbury constantly at work upon my book.  The technicalities were many and the difficulties not a few.  One of the latter ­and perhaps the chief one ­was to so disguise the real vulnerable points of our country which I had discovered on my tour with military experts as to mislead the Germans, who might seek to make use of the information I conveyed.  The book, to be of value, had, I recognised, to be correct in detail, yet at the same time it must suppress all facts that might be of use to a foreign Power.

The incident near Colchester had nearly passed from my mind, when one night in February, 1909, I chanced to be having supper with Ray Raymond and Vera at the “Carlton,” when at the table on the opposite side of the big room sat a smart, dark-haired young man with a pretty girl in turquoise-blue.

As I looked across, our eyes met.  In an instant I recollected that I had seen that countenance somewhere before.  Yes.  It was actually the face of that nightmare of mine after sampling Sandford’s old cognac!  I sat there staring at her, like a man in a dream.  The countenance was the sweetest and most perfect I had ever gazed upon.  Yet why had I seen it in my unconsciousness?

I noticed that she started.  Then, turning her head, she leaned over and whispered something to her companion.  Next moment, pulling her cloak about her shoulders, she rose, and they both left hurriedly.

What could her fear imply?  Why was she in such terror of me?  That look of horror which I had seen on that memorable night was again there ­yet only for one single second.

My impulse was to rise and dash after the pair.  Yet, not being acquainted with her, I should only, by so doing, make a fool of myself and also annoy my lady friend.

And so for many days and many weeks the remembrance of that sweet and dainty figure ever haunted me.  I took a holiday, spending greater part of the time on a friend’s yacht in the Norwegian fjords.  Yet I could not get away from that face and the curious mystery attaching to it.

On my return home, I was next day rung up on the telephone by my friend Major Carmichael, of the Intelligence Department of the War Office, who had been one of my assistants in preparing the forthcoming book.  At his urgent request I went round to see him in Whitehall, and on being ushered into his office, I was introduced to a tall, dark-bearded man, whose name I understood to be Shayler.

“My dear Jacox,” exclaimed the Major, “forgive me for getting you here in order to cross-examine you, but both Shayler and myself are eagerly in search of some information.  You recollect those maps of yours, marked with all sorts of confidential memoranda relating to the East Coast ­facts that would be of the utmost value to the German War Office ­what did you do with them?”

“I deposited them here.  I suppose they’re still here,” was my reply.

“Yes.  But you’ll recollect my warning long ago, when you were reconnoitring.  Did you ever allow them to pass out of your hands?”

“Never.  I carried them in my portfolio, the key of which was always on my chain.”

“Then what do you think of these?” he asked, walking to a side table where lay a pile of twenty or thirty glass photographic negatives.  And taking up one of them, he handed it to me.

It was a photograph of one of my own maps!  The plan was the section of country in the vicinity of Glasgow.  Upon it I saw notes in my own handwriting, the tracing of the telegraph wires with the communications of each wire, and dozens of other facts of supreme importance to the invader.

“Great heavens!” I gasped.  “Where did you get that?”

“Shayler will tell you, my dear fellow!” answered the Major.  “It seems that you’ve been guilty of some sad indiscretion.”

“I am attached to the Special Department at New Scotland Yard,” explained the dark-bearded man.  “Two months ago a member of the secret service in the employ of our Foreign Office made a report from Berlin that a young girl, named Gertie Drew, living in a Bloomsbury boarding-house, had approached the German military attache offering, for three thousand pounds, to supply him with photographs of a number of confidential plans of our eastern counties and of the Clyde defences.  The attache had reported to the War Office in Berlin, hence the knowledge obtained by the British secret agent.  The matter was at once placed in my hands, and since that time I have kept careful observation upon the girl ­who has been a photographer’s assistant ­and those in association with her.  The result is that I have fortunately managed to obtain possession of these negatives of your annotated plans.”

“But how?” I demanded.

“By making a bold move,” was the detective’s reply.  “The Germans were already bargaining for these negatives when I became convinced that the girl was only the tool of a man who had also been a photographer, and who had led a very adventurous life ­an American living away in the country, near Colchester, under the name of Charles Sandford.”

“Sandford!” I gasped, staring at him.  “What is the girl like?”

“Here is her portrait,” was the detective’s reply.

Yes!  It was the sweet face of my nightmare!

“What have you discovered regarding Sandford?” I asked presently, when I had related to the two men the story of the meeting at Salisbury and also my night’s adventure.

“Though born in America and adopting an English name, his father was German, and we strongly suspect him of having, on several occasions, sold information to Germany.  Yesterday, feeling quite certain of my ground, I went down into Essex with a search warrant and made an examination of the house.  Upstairs I found a very complete photographic plant, and concealed beneath the floor-boards in the dining-room was a box containing these negatives, many of them being of your maps of the Clyde defences, which they were just about to dispose of.  The man had got wind that we were keeping observation upon him, and had already fled.  The gang consisted of an old hump-backed woman, who posed as his mother, a young woman, who he said was his married sister, but who was really the wife of his man-servant, and the girl Drew, who was his photographic assistant.”

“Where’s the girl?  I suppose you don’t intend to arrest her?”

“I think not.  If you saw her perhaps you might induce her to tell you the truth.  The plot to photograph those plans while you were insensible was certainly a cleverly contrived one, and it’s equally certain that the two women you met in Salisbury only travelled with you in order to be convinced that you really carried the precious maps with you.”

“Yes,” I admitted, utterly amazed.  “I was most cleverly trapped, but it is most fortunate that we were forewarned, and that our zealous friends across the water have been prevented from purchasing the detailed exposure of our most vulnerable points.”

That afternoon, Gertie Drew, the neat-waisted girl with the fair face, walked timidly into my room, and together we sat for fully an hour, during which time she explained how the man Sandford had abstracted the portfolio from my car and substituted an almost exact replica, prior to sending Bennett back to Colchester, and how at the moment of my unconsciousness ­as he was searching me for my key ­she had entered the dining-room when I had opened my eyes, and staring at her had accused her of poisoning me.  She knew she had been recognised, and that had caused her alarm in the “Carlton.”

That Sandford had managed to replace the portfolio in the car and abstract the replica next day was explained, and that he had held the girl completely in his power was equally apparent.  Therefore, I have since obtained for her a situation with a well-known firm of photographers in Regent Street, where she still remains.  The hump-backed woman and her pseudo-daughter have never been seen since, but only a couple of months ago there was recovered from the Rhine at Coblenz the body of a man whose head was fearfully battered, and whom the police, by his clothes and papers upon him, identified as Charles Sandford, the man with whom I shall ever remember partaking of that peculiarly seductive glass of 1815 cognac.