von Moll had used the cave as a
storehouse for uncompleted machines of a complicated kind. What the
machines were he did not know. Why von Moll, acting no doubt by the
Emperor's orders, should have dumped them there was beyond guessing.

Though Gorman was disappointed he found life on Salissa pleasant
enough. He was exceedingly comfortable, thanks to Smith's devotion to
duty. He had many long talks with Donovan, which he enjoyed, for
Donovan was always amusing and stimulating. He saw a great deal of the
Queen, helped her to make plans for the future of the island, listened
when she talked about Phillips. There was a mixture of shyness with
frank simplicity in the way she spoke about her lover which Gorman
found very attractive. Sometimes he went out with Kalliope's lover in
the largest island boat and watched the casting of nets. Once or twice
he tried to get into intimate conversation with Smith, hoping that the
man, caught off his guard, might drop a hint that would give some clue
to the meaning of the cisterns, the petrol, the machinery and the
Emperor's curious interest in the island. But Smith took shelter
behind the manner of a good servant, the most impenetrable of all
defences. Gorman never got anything out of him except a deferential
"Yes, sir," or, in reply to some leading question, "Don't know, sir,
I'm sure." Or perhaps, "Indeed, sir!" in a tone of respectful
surprise.

Gorman was at that time inclined to think that he had made a mistake
in not going home on the _Ida_. Apart from the exciting movements of
Irish affairs about which he could only speculate, he felt sure that
it was in London, not on the island, that the most important
developments of the Salissa mystery would take place. He wanted to
know what Steinwitz was doing, and whether Konrad Karl was still
enjoying his spendthrift holiday in Paris. He would have liked to be
in a position to watch the fussy activities of Sir Bartholomew
Bland-Potterton. Later on I was able to tell him something, not of
Steinwitz or Konrad Karl, but about Sir Bartholomew. It was impossible
to live in London during the latter part of July without perpetually
bumping against Bland-Potterton. He was like the ball on a rapidly
spun roulette board. He seemed to be flung about from place to place
with extreme rapidity in an utterly irregular manner. It was
impossible to guess where he would be or in what direction he would
move. I came across him one day in Cockspur Street.