CHAPTER XVI."YOU'VE KILLED HIM."Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland. In a few minutes the hill would be swarming with warders searching for them.Rupert felt a thrill of excitement. The first thrill he had experienced for many weeks. Curious thoughts and memories flashed through his brain as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict 303, who kept closely to his side in spite of the steep ascent. He remembered as a boy hunting with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The Hall; he used to ride a rough moorland pony. This thrill of being hunted was somewhat similar to the thrill of hunting. As a boy he had always had a sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague hope, he was always ashamed to express, that it might escape. He understood now. It was far finer to be hunted than to hunt."We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep your pecker up, man!""I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for long."They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight—rocks, walls, roads, hills, and valleys."If this only lasts," Rupert whispered."Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's a seaport town?"Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you? It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get away.""Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort of game is it you're playing—Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them. They held their breath and listened intently.The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away."A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course."Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded."Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the fog lifts.""Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland—then you must know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us—or somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death, remember."Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen, 303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm—to my home."His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want to say to my father—if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a matter of life or death to him, perhaps—and to my sister. When I've done that, delivered my message—why then I shall give myself up."The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had said."You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they—give you food and clothes and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're going to see this thing through together."Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not a bit of good. My father will give us both up."He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to persuade him that he was attempting the impossible."I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But it's no use talking. Come along!"Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy."We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They listened. It came again—a faint shout. They were straining their ears in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the first."Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart."By God, we're done!" 303 cried.The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill."We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the valley."Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like a hare, leaping, stumbling, dashing first one way, then another to avoid obstacles. Rupert followed. Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend him a hand. Once he glanced back and he saw the warders reach the wall; they dismounted, and one commenced to pull the stones off the wall to make a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and shouted to the flying convicts to stop—or he would fire.Twice the warning came. They were racing side by side now. Rupert heard himself laugh. The sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards away now. He set his teeth and flung back his head while he waited for the crack of the warders' carbines and the "ping" of the buckshot.It came just as the kindly fog was about to envelop them again. Ten seconds more and they would have been safe.Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a sportsman. Perhaps he had purposely given them a run for their money. But he had to do his duty. He knew that if once they got into the fog again they would be lost.So he fired. He saw the right-hand man stumble, then roll over and over like a shot rabbit until he lay quite still face downwards on the heather. Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the other man had disappeared.Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over the wall and ran down the hill-side to the fallen convict. The man who had fired the shot stooped down and turned him over. And he started and looked at his companion. The convict's face was white as death; blood was flowing from a wound on his forehead."My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the second warder said. "You've killed him!"CHAPTER XVII.AT POST BRIDGE HALL.The warders stared into each other's faces."It's a bad job. You're sure he's dead——""I wouldn't have done it for anything," the man who had fired the shot whispered. "I aimed at his legs, too. Damn the gun!"He threw it into the heather, and turned away to hide his emotion.The second warder glanced back over his shoulder. The fog was slipping down the hillside again. The stone wall and the ponies were already lost to view."Fire off your gun again; they'll hear it on the road. I'd better go back for the ponies, or we shall lose 'em.""Which way did the other fellow go?""I don't know. You get the ponies—I'll wait here."The second warder hurried up the hillside towards the stone wall and disappeared into the fog. The one who had fired the fatal shot stooped to pick up his gun. As he did so, the figure of the convict lying on the heather stirred. A second later he was on his feet, running for dear life!He was gone before the warder could realise what had happened. He swung round and stared open-mouthed at the wall of fog surrounding him on all sides."Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated.Jamming a cartridge into his gun, he fired it off.* * * * *When the fatal shot was fired Rupert was a few yards ahead of 303, and he felt a sharp sting at the point of his shoulder as he heard the shot whiz by. Thinking that the shot was aimed at him, and feeling himself hit, he swerved to the right and made for a low wall which ran down towards the powder-magazine, intent only on reaching its shelter. The shock of being fired at had put all thought of his comrade for the moment out of his mind, and it was not until he was over the wall and heading for the small clump of trees, through the top of which he could see the ruined chimney of the old powder-mill which instinct told him was his only chance, did he think of 303.Slackening his pace, he glanced back over his shoulder—but he could see nothing. He turned once more and sped towards the trees which were now only a few hundred yards away, and the fold in the ground hid him from the road and also from the hill above. On reaching the trees, his breath coming in great gasps, worn out with excitement, he threw himself upon a bed of rushes growing beside the Cherry Brook, which flowed within the walls that enclosed the powder mills.He was consumed with raging thirst, and when he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he crawled to the brook and buried his face in the cool, clear stream. As he sat up he saw his right hand dripping with blood, and for the first time remembered his wound. Taking off his broad-arrowed coat, he felt his throbbing shoulder, and was relieved to find the bullet had but grazed his flesh. He went to the stream and dipped his coat into the water—when he was startled by the dull thud of horses' hoofs approaching.The powder mill buildings were mere ruined shells. There was no shelter there—but suddenly his eye caught the chimney, a circular stack about thirty feet high. The horseman had reached the wall; he heard him check the horse and dismount. Rupert remembered that he had often swarmed up the inside of the chimney when a boy. The sound of the pony's hoofs striking the stones of the wall as the warder led him through the gap caused Rupert to spring towards the chimney. In a second he was within the ruined furnace, grasping the iron bar which crossed the chimney some six feet above the ground.He swung himself up, and placing his knees against the round wall in front of him, and with his back against the other side, he slowly worked himself up the narrow shaft until he was some twelve feet up. By jamming his feet in a niche from which the mortar had fallen out, and with his back thrust against the opposite wall, he made himself secure for the moment.He heard the warder and the pony stumbling over the rubble which strewed the mouth of the ruined chimney; his heart was in his mouth. Pony and man were within the furnace, and the voice of the warder almost beneath him made Rupert look down in momentary expectation of meeting his upturned gaze; he saw his arm and shoulder already beneath the chimney—another moment he would be discovered.A voice outside hailed the warder, and he stepped back—and disappeared.For some little time Rupert heard the voice of men talking in the precincts of the powder mill. He strained his ears to try and hear what they said, but only caught odd words. He gathered that they were still searching both for him and Convict 303. He was relieved to know that his friend had not been caught; yet in his heart he realised it was only a matter of time. Once he reached home—if indeed he were lucky enough to succeed in doing so—he would only wait long enough to discover how things were with his father and sister, and to warn them that a fortune might still be lying within their grasp. He did not know how much of the little property had been mortgaged to Sir Reginald Crichton; he almost hoped the disused tin mine was included. As long as the interest was paid, the mortgage would remain undisturbed; and Sir Reginald had proved himself to be not only an upright gentleman, but a kind friend.It was his one-time friend, Robert Despard, the man who had called himself his pal, whom he feared. Almost the last words the latter had spoken to him echoed ironically in his brain:"I'll keep the secret about our radium mine, old man, never fear. It's safe with me!"Various schemes flashed with lightning-like rapidity through Rupert's brain as he clung to his perilous position in the chimney above the furnace. He began to think that the men outside intended to remain there for the night—it seemed so long before they moved away, and he heard the beat of their ponies' hoofs growing fainter and fainter. But at last he knew they were really gone. Even then he waited awhile before he commenced to painfully clamber to the ground.He was stiff and sore. His shoulder ached and throbbed where the stray buckshot had struck him. There was blood upon his hand, too, where he had cut it.But he was still free. At first he moved cautiously, examining the country as much as was visible in all directions. The fog had partially cleared away, but it still lay in patches here and there.There was not a soul in sight. Not a sound to be heard save the purling waters of the little Cherry Brook on his left. He knelt down and washed the blood from his hand, then took a drink. And suddenly he laughed under his breath.It was good to be alive again—for he had not been living those past months in prison. He had been less alive than a caged animal. He had slept, eaten, worked, and exercised with mechanical-like precision. Even the agonies of mind he had undergone seemed unreal now. They did not even seem to matter—nothing mattered but the fact that he was free!Free to sit or stand, to walk or run, to laugh or to cry. Free to move as he liked, look where he liked, do what he liked. He dug his hands into the soft peat and tore it up, and sniffed the sweet scent. He stood upright and stretched out his arms, then laughed aloud.It was indeed good to be alive again. It was wonderful! The next moment he was trembling from head to foot, and his body broke out in a sweat. He was not to be alive for long. Even if he reached Blackthorn Farm and delivered his message he would have to give himself up and go back to prison. Back to that living grave!He had told poor 303 that escape was absolutely impossible. Even if a man got outside Dartmoor and reached Tavistock or Exeter or Plymouth he was certain to be detected and brought back. His father would never hide him or help him—he knew that.Yet if he once succeeded in getting home he could remain there hidden long enough to disguise himself, to grow a beard. And then one day, so altered as to be hardly recognisable, he might ship off to Canada or Australia.His head swam: he put his hands up before his eyes for a moment. The sudden draught of freedom had intoxicated him.Once again he gazed round the moorland. It was growing dark, the sun had set, and the western sky was still glowing red. Now and then a faint puff of wind stirred the trees surrounding the powder mill, and he saw stray banks of fog driving here and there, shifting their position. By crossing the stream he could step right into the white bank of mist.Freedom! The thought of it had become an obsession now. Taking a run he cleared Cherry Brook and plunged into the fog. He knew his way now; he could have found it blindfold. But he went cautiously, for no man can be sure of himself if he once misses his way when a Dartmoor fog is down.To reach Blackthorn Farm he would have to pass Post Bridge Hall, which lay between him and the East Dart. He kept edging towards the valley, for though it was near the main road, the fog lay more thickly there than in the higher ground.It was rough going. Rocks and boulders and gorse bushes impeded the progress, invisible in the mist. Now and again he struck a boggy patch of ground and had to make a wide detour to avoid it. He had been walking for upwards of an hour, and he began to fear lest he had missed his way and perhaps been going round in a circle, when suddenly he stepped out into a clear, starlit night. Below him he saw the tiny village of Post Bridge, and almost directly in front of him red lights gleaming through the belt of trees.Post Bridge Hall! Down on the bridge itself, near the little post office, he saw figures moving to and fro. He dropped on to his hands and knees behind the shelter of a rock. He heard the barking of a sheep dog, the voices of men and women travelled up to him.Of course the news of the escape had spread, and the place was alive with people searching.How eager men and women were to hunt their kind! He remembered how as a boy he had joined in just such a hunt.He commenced to crawl along on all fours towards Post Bridge Hall. The trees there might shelter him, but it would be useless to try and cross the patch of country on the other side. He climbed a couple of stone walls, crossed a field, scrambled over a fence, and dropped straight into the garden of the Hall itself.Lights gleamed from the windows. The front door stood wide open, and not a hundred yards away from him he saw the outer door of the glass conservatory which abutted from the drawing-room. He saw with surprise that this was open too.For a long time he lay waiting, watching, afraid to go on—because he knew the fog would not descend again. The million eyes of the night watched him from a cloudless sky.Presently from the woods behind him he heard voices and the barking of dogs. A gang of men were beating the spinney, searching for the two convicts.Within sight of home he would be caught. He rose to his feet, crossed the narrow stretch of turf and walked boldly up the drive.He stood a moment outside the conservatory door, listening. He heard nothing but the voices of the men in the wood and the barking of the dogs.He stepped inside the conservatory, closed the door, and then, fumbling for the key, found it. He locked it, and drew the bolts top and bottom which he knew were there. Stooping down he crawled beneath the broad shelf which ran the length of the glass-house. The leaves of a palm and the fronds of a large fern gave him complete shelter.He stretched himself out full length so as to lie perfectly flat, and as he did so his foot struck a pile of empty flower-pots. They fell over with a crash. He stopped breathing. He thought he detected a woman's voice in the drawing-room. A minute passed, but no one came.He breathed again. He was safe for the time being. The conservatory door was locked. They would never search Sir Reginald Crichton's house! He was still a free man. And freedom to him now was more than anything else in the world. More than love or honour, or the wealth that might be lying hidden in the tin mine at home, waiting for his father and sister.CHAPTER XVIII.ALARMED.Marjorie Dale only remained at Blackthorn Farm after her father's return from London long enough to nurse him back to health. When he had completely recovered from the effects of his accident she left home, Devonshire, and all she knew and loved. She went away as much in deference to her lover's wishes as to her father's, though so far as her own feelings were concerned she would have preferred to remain at Post Bridge and face public opinion—scandal, cruelty, and calumny. She knew that both she and her father would be social outcasts.She had connections on her mother's side living at Calais. They were in the lace trade, and had spent the best part of their lives out of England. To them Marjorie was sent—not altogether as a guest. In return for a home and protection she was expected to play the part of nursery governess to their children and help in the housework.No one was more delighted at this arrangement than Sir Reginald Crichton. Marjorie would be away for at least six months, and during that time much might happen.Jim would learn to forget; work would help him.He was so grateful that he made the mistake of thanking Marjorie for the step she was taking. But she read his thoughts as she had done before: she knew what he hoped would come from this parting between Jim and her."I'm going away, not for my father's sake, nor for yours, nor my own, but for Jim's sake," she explained. "I know that the parting will only strengthen our love, and his determination to marry me. With him I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world." She smiled when Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's an unfashionable belief, yet everything in the world depends on love. The greatest men have always been the greatest lovers; even soldiers, sailors, and Empire builders. When I return from abroad Jim is going to announce our engagement. I'm not entirely selfish in agreeing to this; for I know that his happiness and his future lie in my hand."Sir Reginald had nothing to say. He had proved that argument was useless. His son's attitude was a severe blow to him. For the moment love was stronger than reason or ambition, but he still believed that by waiting, love would weaken and even Jim would listen to wiser and more worldly counsels.So Marjorie bade her lover farewell one grey autumn morning and left for France—but not before she had had an unpleasant interview with Robert Despard and taken a very unhappy farewell of her father.For when Despard brought the old man back from London, he had stayed on at Blackthorn Farm, and he had seized every opportunity of making love to Marjorie—even after she had told him his case was hopeless, that her heart was already given.Despard had merely laughed and said he intended to win her in spite of all opposition. At first his attitude puzzled her, for she could not conceive why a man of his type should wish to marry into a family whose name was now a byword in the county. Her father encouraged him, moreover, and did everything in his power to make her look kindly on Despard's suit.It was only the night before she left for Calais that she discovered the reason.Despard had insisted on paying off the mortgage which Sir Reginald held on Blackthorn Farm, and the homestead was once again her father's property. Crichton, too, had acted very generously in the matter of paying the conveyancing expenses himself.Instead of being grateful, Marjorie was shocked and horrified. It seemed as if the three men had laid their heads together and planned this thing to put her in their power. It was a trick on Despard's part, and Sir Reginald had helped him—not really for John Dale's sake, but in order to save his own son from what he considered would be a mesalliance.To a certain extent she was right. But Despard had another and stronger motive for his generosity in paying off the mortgage on the farm and handing the estate back to the man who had, only a month or two ago, been a stranger to him. The reason was to be found in the old tin mine where Rupert and he had suddenly discovered the presence of pitch-blende, firing their imaginations with thoughts of radium—and a fortune.News of what was happening in the outside world seldom reached Marjorie in Calais. And the only news she received of what was taking place in the wilds of Dartmoor was contained in a weekly letter from her father. He refrained from telling her everything. Jim wrote to her daily. They were very wonderful letters telling her of his work, telling her of his love. But for those letters she would never have remained for half those long, weary months in the conventional Anglo-French family in the sleepy little town of Calais.But even Jim did not know what was taking place at Blackthorn Farm until the news became public property, and the great boom which Despard cleverly engineered was burst on a credulous, Tango-dancing world.By that time Marjorie had returned home to find Despard ensconsed at Blackthorn Farm, the land surrounded and over-run by a small army of men, and Jim Crichton still absent with his corps at Netheravon.Marjorie hardly recognised her old home. It was over nine months since her brother had been convicted and sentenced. A change had taken place, too, in her, and she knew it. Six months abroad had made a great difference—mentally and physically. She had looked forward to returning to Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the bitter memories she knew she would find there.Her father met her at Newton Abbot station, and it was some minutes before he found her in the crowd of passengers who alighted from the West of England express. To the old man it seemed as if she had grown up suddenly. Grown from a girl into a woman. From a farmer's daughter into a lady."Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled. "I almost took you for a Frenchwoman with that smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous shoes! It's lucky we haven't brought the dogcart, so you won't have to walk up the hills."Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station. And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his lips."Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she's become! She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the last person in the world she wanted to see."Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car.While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it."It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I'm afraid you'll find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself, but the surrounding waste land.""Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been living with a fortune under our feet all these years," Dale explained.He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart, too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a little ashamed.Marjorie guessed what had happened. When Blackthorn Farm was reached, she knew. But instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized her. Within a few hundred yards of the farm, hideous corrugated iron buildings had sprung up; the land all around the tin mine had been cleared and levelled. Plant was being erected; scattered here and there were temporary dwellings, and offices for the workmen; a miniature railway line had already been laid on the ancient granite track. Tears rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that had been done to her moorlands and her home."Whose work is this?" she asked. "Mr. Despard's, of course! I suppose Sir Reginald gave permission——"Dale explained all that had happened, and the generous part Despard had played. "I owe him a debt I can never repay. Ruin stared us in the face, Marjorie, and through him it has been averted. When—when my boy comes out of prison—though I hope I shall not live to see that day—he will at least have the chance of living a decent life, of wiping out the crime he committed, and becoming a useful citizen. He will have the opportunity, for he will be a rich man. God grant that he takes it."Marjorie shook her head. "Mr. Despard is a stranger to us. It's unlike you, father, to accept so much from a stranger. What does Mr. Despard expect in return?"The old man turned away. "Nothing. Of course he'll share in our good fortune. He'll take the larger share of whatever money we make. I have insisted on that. A company will be floated—it's in the course of promotion already. It's a gamble, to a certain extent. I believe there's a deal of opposition; there are men who scoff at the idea of traces of radium having been discovered here. Other eminent men have made exhaustive tests, and their report leads us to believe there is no doubt that we shall be able to extract radium from the mine. But I've refused to take a single penny in cash; I'm to be paid entirely in shares.""And how is Mr. Despard to be paid?""I don't believe he has thought of himself," Dale replied. "He'll join the board of directors, of course, and I suppose he'll receive a certain number of shares. He'll become a very famous man, Marjorie. I've seen a lot of him during the past few months, and my respect has grown daily. He has thrown himself heart and soul into this business. At first every one scoffed at him, but lately a change has taken place in public opinion here. Even Sir Reginald is converted. Can't you guess why Mr. Despard has worked so hard and been so generous? I'm sure his love for you, born originally of pity, has been the motive.""Then I'm sorry," Marjorie said quickly. "Even if I were not engaged to Jim I could never care for Mr. Despard. I dislike and distrust him. The sooner he realises this the better."John Dale sighed and shook his head. He had forced himself to believe his daughter would forget. He had hoped, he had prayed, that she would have grown to see things in a reasonable way, and that this sudden promise of wealth would entirely change her point of view of life and love."Sir Reginald will never consent to his son marrying you," he replied harshly. "Why, Jim is little more than a boy, he doesn't know his own mind. He has already forgotten."Marjorie smiled and said nothing more. She knew that she would see him in a few days' time, for he had applied for special leave on urgent private affairs, and he had written assuring her that he would be at the Hall again within twelve or fourteen days. He also hinted that he had important work in hand, that he might be doing some long distance flights on a new monoplane containing improvements, which were his own inventions, later on in the year. And he was down for early promotion.The twelve days of waiting for her lover's return were long and weary ones. Blackthorn Farm was no longer the lonely, forgotten homestead, tucked away in a secluded part of the moorlands it had been formerly. Tourists and trippers thronged to look at the curious old farmhouse and to watch the works being erected a few hundred yards away. The place was over-run by workmen. All day long cars and lorries were rushing to and fro along the main road between Princetown and Post Bridge and Moretonhampstead. Solitude and loneliness, which had been so easy to find in the old days, disappeared. Marjorie had to take long walks before she knew she was safe from intrusion. She dreaded meeting friends and acquaintances more than the strangers who came to stare at her old home. She was not afraid of being cut or shunned. Instinct warned her, that now it was known vast wealth was hidden in the old mine, people would conveniently forget the shame that had fallen on her name. They would no longer think of her as the convict's sister, but as the future heiress. Shame made her want to hide from every one but her lover. Even from her father and the labourers and farm hands on the estate.She was ashamed—not of herself or her brother, but of them!At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from her lover saying that he would reach Post Bridge Hall that evening. Of course the news of the happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried to him. He told Marjorie that his father would be absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall. He did not want anyone to know of his arrival.So Marjorie said nothing. Her love had become too precious a thing to be talked about. Moreover, she did not want Despard to know of Jim's presence at the Hall. Feeling secure in the knowledge that John Dale approved of his love for Marjorie, Despard had pressed his suit on every available opportunity, giving her no peace. When he found it was useless to plead, he even threatened her.But Marjorie laughed in his face."You can laugh now," he said savagely. "But I mean to make you my wife. I mean to win you. Not many men would have done for a woman what I've done for you. I've saved you from poverty, I've saved you from disgrace. Perhaps when we're married I can save your brother from prison."She had always believed in her heart that Despard could have proved Rupert's innocence if he had chosen to speak at the trial. And these words returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left the farm and walked in the direction of Beardown, intending to pass the rest of the day there reading, until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall. When the fog came down, she had to slightly alter her plans, and she made for the main road as she knew she could not lose her way there. She was terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered close to Post Bridge Hall until it began to grow dark. She scarcely heard the boom of the warning signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on meeting the man she loved. It was just as the fog lifted and she was making her way by the long drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook her and pulled up, and Jim jumped to the ground.They looked at one another, but spoke no word. Telling the chauffeur to take the car on, Jim slipped his arm through Marjorie's, and together they walked up to the house. Not until they had entered the drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing, did Jim Crichton speak. He took Marjorie's hand in his and looked deep into her eyes."I can hardly believe that you are really here," he whispered. "It seems too good to be true. The months have been like years. But you have never been absent from me—even in my work you have always been beside me. By day and by night. If I had ever doubted that love was the greatest thing in the world I should know it now."Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she tried to speak, but no words came. He had said just what she wanted him to say. And he had said it quietly, almost coldly.For a few moments there was silence. Then he released her hands, and opening his arms he took her in them and, holding her tightly, covered her face with kisses. The pent-up passion burst. The months of separation, the obstacles that had been placed in their way, instead of killing their love, had increased it ten-fold."My dear, my dear one, what does anything else in the world matter so long as we have one another!" Jim whispered."Nothing," she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears—tears of joy. "Nothing—but I'm a woman. Therefore love is all in all to me. But you're a man, and——"He silenced her with his lips: "And helpless, useless without his mate."The darkness increased. The old oak-panelled room was only lit by the dancing flames from the log fire. There was silence in the house, and outside on the moorlands there was silence, too. Presently it was broken by the shouts of men and the baying of dogs. But the lovers did not hear.They only heard the beating of each other's hearts and the voice of Love calling them to walk fearlessly along the path they had chosen. And the voice of Fate calling them to face the unknown future together.Twice a servant knocked at the door before Jim heard, and starting up told him to enter."Well, what is it?" he asked, striking a match to light the candles, fearful lest his father had returned earlier than he expected.The servant explained that an official from Princetown Prison wished to see him. "I understand, sir," the man said in an excited voice, "that a couple of convicts escaped this afternoon in the fog. They traced one in this direction. He was wounded by a shot the warder fired. They want permission to search the grounds and out-buildings."Jim hesitated for a moment. "Of course they can search," he replied. "You know where the keys of the garage, the stables, and the out-buildings are, Perkins. You had better accompany them; and be sure to lock up carefully.""Very good, sir!"The servant was about to retire when the burly form of a uniformed warder blocked the doorway. He saluted."I understand Sir Reginald is away; can I speak to you a moment, sir?"Jim glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie. She was hidden from sight, seated in a large armchair."Certainly," he replied. He crossed the room and stepped into the hall, closing the drawing-room door behind him.As he did so a noise from the conservatory on the left of the fireplace startled Marjorie. The sound of a sudden crash. She listened a moment, then rose to her feet.Very quietly stepping towards the door which led into the hot-house, she pulled back the curtain and peered through the glass panel.CHAPTER XIX."YOU MUST GO BACK!"Marjorie could see nothing. It was quite dark outside now. She listened, straining her ears, but not another sound could be heard. Whatever had fallen or been knocked down had made a great noise. Obviously, some one was in the conservatory.She turned the handle of the door; it was unlocked, and it opened. Her first thought was that perhaps one of the dogs had been shut in by mistake. As she stepped down on to the tessellated pavement into the darkness she experienced a sudden little throb of fear. For the thought came that perhaps one of the escaped convicts had made his way into the conservatory and was hiding there. The fear went as quickly as it came. Her eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, saw dimly outlined the delicate fronds of the ferns and the graceful palms and overhead the green of the clambering vine. The air was heavy with the warm and subtle odour of forced growth.She made her way to the door leading into the garden, and found it locked and bolted. So no one could have possibly entered that way. She gave a whistle and snapped her fingers, still thinking that one of the dogs might be there. There was no response.She was turning away when her foot struck a portion of broken pot. Stooping down she saw that a large pile of them had been overturned, and the majority lay in fragments on the ground, behind them a tin bucket from which water was still trickling.She gave a little laugh—it seemed so mysterious. And then her brow puckered in a frown.... Had some one been listening and spying on them? The idea was ridiculous, and yet—the bucket, obviously half full of water, and the pile of pots could not have fallen there on their own account. It was just possible that a large rat——She stooped down to peer under the shelf. As she did so she was conscious of footsteps on the gravel outside, and at the same moment a brighter light shone through the door leading into the drawing-room. A servant had brought in the lamp. Then she heard Jim's voice, obviously speaking to one of the warders from the prison.The ferns and the drooping tendrils of plants and a bank of moss blocked her view underneath the shelf; the light from the drawing-room fell at the wrong angle. Bending lower she brushed aside a clump of ferns.And she saw, pressed tightly against the wall, the outline of a foot and leg. Some one was hiding there.The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers.One of the escaped convicts! She caught her breath, and drawing back stood upright, uncertain for the moment what to do. The door was bolted on the inside, and with Jim and the warders a few feet away in the drawing-room he was trapped. There was no escape. She hesitated a moment, not in the least alarmed, only surprised and a little overwhelmed by her discovery. She knew that the moorlands must be alive with men searching; already, probably, the outbuildings and the houses were being ransacked—and here the convict lay, at her feet.The next thought was that he must have heard her enter and knew that she had discovered him. She wondered why he had not attacked her and tried to bolt."Marjorie—where are you?"She started at the sound of her lover's voice. It brought her back to a sense of her duty. As she turned towards the drawing-room she heard—him saying good-night to the warder to whom he had been talking."One moment," she cried, "I want you, Jim."Something stirred at her feet. A movement from the hunted creature lying hidden beneath the ferns and flowers.Suddenly, in a flash, she felt as if her soul, her whole being, had changed places with his. She experienced the agony that he was feeling—alternating hope and fear. The desire to live and escape at all costs, and the desire to kill those who stood between him and liberty. She heard herself draw her breath with difficulty, with hard, sharp gasps. Her body broke out into a sweat. She trembled from head to foot.Then she felt Jim's hand on her arm. "Hello, dear, what are you doing out here in the darkness?"She turned her back on him, afraid lest the light coming through the open door shone on her face. Again she heard a stealthy movement of feet followed by a shuffling under the shelf. The convict knew the game was up and was coming out."Don't move," she cried, scarcely knowing what she said.With an effort she steadied herself and gained self-control. Against the wall on her right a Maréchal Niel rose-tree had been trained. A yellow bud caught her eyes just out of reach. Jim Crichton entered the conservatory."I wanted to steal that rose," she whispered. "I'm not tall enough. Do pick it for me, Jim.""Silly child," he laughed. "You gave me quite a fright. I thought something was wrong."Standing on tip-toe, he picked the rosebud and gave it her. Bending her head she placed her lips to it. Jim kissed the top of her head, then, turning away, tried the outer door."That's all right. No one can get in here. Come along back to the drawing-room, Marjorie. Those fellows will have finished searching in a minute and we shall be left in peace again. It's rather serious, you know, a couple of convicts getting away. But, of course, they'll catch them all right—though I'm afraid they'll have to wait until the morning now."Taking her hand he led her back to the drawing-room. He was closing the conservatory door when she asked him to leave it open."It seems rather hot in here.""Well, it's hotter in there," he laughed.He put his arms around her and gazed into her eyes. "I'm jealous of every minute that's stolen from us. I shall never let you go away again for such a long period. It's been bad enough for me, and I've had work that I love. It must have been worse for you, darling."She nodded, and laid her face on his shoulder. "That's all gone, dear. This hour is ours—and there's the future.... Jim, I have a confession to make.""Well, come and sit down in the arm-chair and make it," he laughed. "Let me hold you in my arms as if you were a child, for that's all you are sometimes.""Not now. I'm a woman. No," as he made a movement, "listen to me, Jim. While I was away from you I had no doubts about the future. I was certain that I could make you happy, that love was the principal thing in life. I'm not so sure now."She felt his grip tighten. "Why, just now you confessed——""I confessed whatIfelt," she interrupted. "I want you to confess. I want you to look far, far into the future ... and also to remember the past. Remember what I am—and what my brother is."Against her will her eyes were drawn towards the conservatory where the convict was hiding. An outcast, an outlaw, wearing the shameful uniform of crime. Just such a man was her brother. Wearing just the same uniform, living the same life, thinking the same thoughts. Just as desperate. Her brother: herded with other criminals in one of the great prisons of England. She had been speaking her thoughts, saying just what she felt. She knew that she was speaking them to gain time. She ought not to have wasted one moment before telling Jim of the man hiding a few yards away from them. Warders were at that moment searching outbuildings and the gardens. She was committing an unlawful act in not giving him up. She was making her lover party to her guilt.But she could not tell him. For one dreadful moment she had entered into that wretched man's feelings. It was as if she had taken his place in the darkness out there where he was hiding.She wanted him to escape! She was incapable of reasoning that moment. Perhaps the taint of crime was in her blood. Perhaps her brother really had been guilty of robbing her lover's father."My dearest little one, you needn't trouble about my future. I shall really only begin to live when you're my wife. I can't lose my job—if I do I can find another. And your love will make me twice as keen on my work, for you will share in it. We have each got our job to do, and we shall do it better for being together. That's all about it."She heard his voice, as from a distance off. As he finished speaking she heard footsteps in the hall—the opening of the front door.Some one knocked at the drawing-room door. It opened, and the servant admitted the chief warder."We've searched carefully, sir," he said to Jim, who put Marjorie from him and stood in front of her. "And some of my men have been right through the gardens and shrubberies, but they ain't hiding anywhere here. No doubt you'll see that your men-servants keep a sharp look-out. One man's badly hit—but he was a sharpish one, he was. I'm afraid there ain't much chance of getting them to-night, but we shall have them as soon as day breaks." He saluted. "Good-night, sir. Good-night, ma'am."The drawing-room door closed, and Marjorie listened to the footsteps crossing the hall. "We shall get them as soon as day breaks." Automatically she repeated the words the warder had spoken."Jim, come here quickly. I have something I must tell you before the warders go."He turned towards her, frowning, a look of amazement on his face. Even then she hesitated. She heard the front door close. The warders had gone. Taking Jim by the arm she led him towards the conservatory."There's some one hiding in there," she whispered. "When you left the room to speak to the chief warder I heard a crash from the conservatory. I went in, and under the shelf I saw a man crouched up. His clothes bore the broad arrow. He's one of the convicts who escaped."Jim looked at her with unbelieving eyes. Then putting her aside, he stepped quickly towards the conservatory. Suddenly he stopped and swung round."Marjorie! You're certain of this? Why didn't you speak—before the warders left?"Something moved in the darkness of the hothouse. Slowly out of the masses of foliage a head and shoulders emerged. Jim sprang to the bell and rang it."What are you going to do?" Marjorie whispered."Send Perkins to call the warders back. Give the fellow up," he replied sharply. "You ought to have told me at once, Marjorie. You had better wait in the dining-room."He stood in the doorway blocking the exit. Marjorie stood in front of him and laid her hands on his arms."Jim—you mustn't give him up. It's horrible."He tried to push her away."Jim," her voice rose piercingly. "My brother is a convict.... You needn't hide him, but just let him go—give him a sporting chance. Let him go. No one will ever know. Give him a chance.""Silence, dear. You don't know what you're saying."The door opened and Perkins entered the room. For a moment there was silence. Not a sound from the conservatory now. Not a sound from the garden outside. The barking of the dogs and the voices of the men had died away."You rang, sir?""Bring the glasses, a syphon of soda water, and the whisky," Jim said in a strained voice.Directly the servant had gone he pointed to the sofa on the other side of the fireplace away from the entrance to the conservatory."Marjorie, dear, go and sit down there. I understand, and I'm sorry; but I must do my duty."She looked at him dry-eyed. All the tenderness had left her face. "It's five-score of men against one. Open the door and let him go. Yes, he's bound to be caught to-morrow, but every hour, every minute, every second of freedom must be as sweet to him as our love is to us, Jim. Give him a run—for his money."Jim had turned his back on her. He disappeared into the conservatory and the door closed behind him.Perkins brought the tumblers and the whisky into the room and placed them on a small table."Quite exciting, miss, this escape of two convicts. Hasn't been an escape from Princetown for a long time. What with that and this radium mine on Mr. Dale's estate——"He suddenly stopped and coughed deprecatingly. He, too, in speaking of convicts had forgotten that he was speaking to a convict's sister.Marjorie waited. For a long time she heard no sound. Then Jim's voice, strained and very stern. Not the voice of a lover now, but the voice of a soldier—even something more than that, the voice of a man under the strain of great emotion.Presently she detected an answering voice. She rose to her feet, and standing against the conservatory door peered through the glass.She could see the outlines of the two men distinctly. One her lover, the other the convict. Jim turned, and as he did so he saw her. She saw him push the convict back, then, mounting the steps, he opened the door."Go back!" he cried fiercely. "Go—away—into the dining-room.""You must tell me what you're going to do."She looked into his face, but his eyes fell. His mouth looked merely a thin line, his jaws protruded. She put her hand on his arm—it was like a steel band."Go away, do you hear! Go away, do you hear! Wait until I come to you." He commanded now.He tried to push her across the room. She clung to him and stood her ground. She stared into his face, forced his eyes to meet hers."You are hiding something from me, Jim.... You are going to give him up——"Suddenly he seized her wrists in a grip of iron. "You know who's hiding out there," he said between his teeth."A convict—that's all I know——"A sound from the conservatory made Jim turn his head. Marjorie wrenched herself free. Out of the darkness beyond the conservatory door the figure of the convict emerged. Marjorie stopped as she saw him."Go back!" Jim cried.The convict spoke. "It's too late! I'm a coward, I know. But liberty's dearer than life now." He held out his arms to Marjorie. "Hide me, for God's sake, hide me!"She put out her hands as if to keep him off. Her lips framed his name. The name of her brother! It rattled in her throat. She turned to her lover."I didn't know, Jim, I didn't know!"He nodded. "Speak quietly. Sit down there."Crossing the room, he locked the drawing-room door. He motioned Rupert to the arm-chair and made him place it so that if he had to open the door no one would see him. Then he poured out a stiff whisky and soda and gave it him to drink. The tumbler rattled between his teeth as he emptied the contents. He laid it on the floor by his side, then he looked at Jim, avoiding his sister's eyes."I—I was hunted here. I didn't come purposely. When I broke away it was not to escape.... I had a message. But the taste of liberty has grown so sweet that—that nothing else matters!"He stopped, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "But before it comes to a question of—of fighting for my freedom—in case I go under, you had better hear what I've got to say. It's for Marjorie and my father I escaped. It was not for you or your father's ears, Mr. Crichton—I want to make sure that swine Despard doesn't cheat us of our rights."He paused a moment as if expecting an interruption, but neither Jim nor Marjorie spoke. They were as motionless as figures of stone."Just before—before I was accused of robbing your father, Mr. Crichton, Despard and I found there was pitch-blende in the old tin mine by Blackthorn Farm. Despard made experiments with it and—he got a report from Vardoff—you may have heard of him—an expert. The report said there were good grounds for supposing that radium might be——"Then Jim Crichton stopped him. "Save your breath. We know this. Why, already the plant is being erected, a company floated. Mr. Despard has apparently done quite the right thing. Anyway, the property belongs to your father again, and if there's any truth in the report he'll make a fortune. If that's all you came to say, all you wanted to know, you can go back to prison with an easy conscience." He spoke brutally. "You must go back, you know.""I am innocent.""That's not the question now. You must go back."Slowly Rupert turned and looked at his sister. "Marjorie. Help me! Say a word for me. He loves you.... Ask him, and he'll help me to escape. For he can, now. The warders won't come back here. I'm safe for the moment. Marjorie—speak. You are my flesh and blood. Speak! It's my life I'm pleading for."
CHAPTER XVI.
"YOU'VE KILLED HIM."
Again the dull boom echoed over the moorland. In a few minutes the hill would be swarming with warders searching for them.
Rupert felt a thrill of excitement. The first thrill he had experienced for many weeks. Curious thoughts and memories flashed through his brain as he raced along shoulder to shoulder with Convict 303, who kept closely to his side in spite of the steep ascent. He remembered as a boy hunting with a pack of harriers which sometimes met at The Hall; he used to ride a rough moorland pony. This thrill of being hunted was somewhat similar to the thrill of hunting. As a boy he had always had a sneaking sympathy with the quarry, and a vague hope, he was always ashamed to express, that it might escape. He understood now. It was far finer to be hunted than to hunt.
"We'll cheat them, No. 303, never fear!" he cried to his comrade. "Keep your pecker up, man!"
"I'm all right," the convict panted; "but I can't keep this pace up for long."
They had entered the thick pall of fog, and presently Rupert stopped in order to regain his breath. They stood close together, touching one another, listening. At first they heard nothing but the sobbing of their own breath, and the beating of their own hearts. And they could see nothing; the blessed fog shut everything out from sight—rocks, walls, roads, hills, and valleys.
"If this only lasts," Rupert whispered.
"Where shall we make for?" No. 303 asked. "Plymouth ain't far from here, is it; and that's a seaport town?"
Rupert turned and looked into the blue eyes of his comrade. He laid his hand on his shoulder. "Man, you don't expect to get right away, do you? It has never been done and never will be done. I was born on these moorlands. I know every stick and stone and bush on them. Even if I wanted to I couldn't get away."
"Even if you wanted to!" No. 303 hissed. "What do you mean? What sort of game is it you're playing—Hide and Seek, or Puss in the Corner?"
He broke off suddenly, and Rupert's grip tightened on his shoulder. The silence was broken. On the still air they heard the sound of a horse galloping along the distant road in the valley somewhere below them. They held their breath and listened intently.
The sound grew nearer and nearer; for a few seconds it seemed as if the speed of the horse was checked. Then, to the relief of both men, the sounds became fainter and fainter, gradually dying away.
"A mounted warder galloping to Post Bridge to cut us off in that direction," Rupert said. "We must stick to the tors. While the fog lasts they can't leave the roads or bridle paths."
Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course.
"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.
"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the fog lifts."
"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland—then you must know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us—or somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death, remember."
Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen, 303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm—to my home."
His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want to say to my father—if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a matter of life or death to him, perhaps—and to my sister. When I've done that, delivered my message—why then I shall give myself up."
The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had said.
"You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they—give you food and clothes and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're going to see this thing through together."
Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not a bit of good. My father will give us both up."
He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to persuade him that he was attempting the impossible.
"I'll stand by you," he replied. "I'll do what I can to help you. But it's no use talking. Come along!"
Presently they came to a high, stone wall, and Rupert uttered an exclamation of joy.
"We're just above Wistman's Wood, and this is the great wall that runs from Beardown to Rough Tor, which is past Post Bridge Hall. It will be easy going now, and if the fog lifts the wall will help to conceal us from anyone on the road below."
They started off again at a good pace. They had not gone for more than half a mile when they both stopped simultaneously.
The sound of a voice had come out of the fog far above them. They listened. It came again—a faint shout. They were straining their ears in the intense silence. Presently they heard a pony's iron-shod hoofs striking on the granite. A moment later another shout, nearer than the first.
"Mounted warders on the tor above us," Rupert whispered. "Quick, get over the wall! We must hide until they're gone."
As they climbed the wall a large stone was displaced and went rolling and bounding down the hill side. Then, just as they jumped to the ground, there was a sudden puff of wind and the cloud of fog rolled away, almost as if it were a great white blanket withdrawn by invisible hands. And there on the tor above them Rupert saw clearly outlined against the sky two horsemen, about three hundred yards apart.
"By God, we're done!" 303 cried.
The mounted warders raised a shout, and jabbing their heels into their ponies' sides, commenced to gallop down the hill.
"We must make a run for it," Rupert said. "There's fog still in the valley."
Before he finished speaking, 303 had torn off like a hare, leaping, stumbling, dashing first one way, then another to avoid obstacles. Rupert followed. Twice 303 fell, and each time Rupert waited to lend him a hand. Once he glanced back and he saw the warders reach the wall; they dismounted, and one commenced to pull the stones off the wall to make a gap for his pony; the other unslung his rifle and shouted to the flying convicts to stop—or he would fire.
Twice the warning came. They were racing side by side now. Rupert heard himself laugh. The sheltering pall of fog was not a hundred yards away now. He set his teeth and flung back his head while he waited for the crack of the warders' carbines and the "ping" of the buckshot.
It came just as the kindly fog was about to envelop them again. Ten seconds more and they would have been safe.
Perhaps the warder had the instincts of a sportsman. Perhaps he had purposely given them a run for their money. But he had to do his duty. He knew that if once they got into the fog again they would be lost.
So he fired. He saw the right-hand man stumble, then roll over and over like a shot rabbit until he lay quite still face downwards on the heather. Before he could raise his carbine and fire again the other man had disappeared.
Both warders let go their ponies, stumbled over the wall and ran down the hill-side to the fallen convict. The man who had fired the shot stooped down and turned him over. And he started and looked at his companion. The convict's face was white as death; blood was flowing from a wound on his forehead.
"My God Bill, you've done it this time!" the second warder said. "You've killed him!"
CHAPTER XVII.
AT POST BRIDGE HALL.
The warders stared into each other's faces.
"It's a bad job. You're sure he's dead——"
"I wouldn't have done it for anything," the man who had fired the shot whispered. "I aimed at his legs, too. Damn the gun!"
He threw it into the heather, and turned away to hide his emotion.
The second warder glanced back over his shoulder. The fog was slipping down the hillside again. The stone wall and the ponies were already lost to view.
"Fire off your gun again; they'll hear it on the road. I'd better go back for the ponies, or we shall lose 'em."
"Which way did the other fellow go?"
"I don't know. You get the ponies—I'll wait here."
The second warder hurried up the hillside towards the stone wall and disappeared into the fog. The one who had fired the fatal shot stooped to pick up his gun. As he did so, the figure of the convict lying on the heather stirred. A second later he was on his feet, running for dear life!
He was gone before the warder could realise what had happened. He swung round and stared open-mouthed at the wall of fog surrounding him on all sides.
"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated.
Jamming a cartridge into his gun, he fired it off.
* * * * *
When the fatal shot was fired Rupert was a few yards ahead of 303, and he felt a sharp sting at the point of his shoulder as he heard the shot whiz by. Thinking that the shot was aimed at him, and feeling himself hit, he swerved to the right and made for a low wall which ran down towards the powder-magazine, intent only on reaching its shelter. The shock of being fired at had put all thought of his comrade for the moment out of his mind, and it was not until he was over the wall and heading for the small clump of trees, through the top of which he could see the ruined chimney of the old powder-mill which instinct told him was his only chance, did he think of 303.
Slackening his pace, he glanced back over his shoulder—but he could see nothing. He turned once more and sped towards the trees which were now only a few hundred yards away, and the fold in the ground hid him from the road and also from the hill above. On reaching the trees, his breath coming in great gasps, worn out with excitement, he threw himself upon a bed of rushes growing beside the Cherry Brook, which flowed within the walls that enclosed the powder mills.
He was consumed with raging thirst, and when he had recovered his breath sufficiently, he crawled to the brook and buried his face in the cool, clear stream. As he sat up he saw his right hand dripping with blood, and for the first time remembered his wound. Taking off his broad-arrowed coat, he felt his throbbing shoulder, and was relieved to find the bullet had but grazed his flesh. He went to the stream and dipped his coat into the water—when he was startled by the dull thud of horses' hoofs approaching.
The powder mill buildings were mere ruined shells. There was no shelter there—but suddenly his eye caught the chimney, a circular stack about thirty feet high. The horseman had reached the wall; he heard him check the horse and dismount. Rupert remembered that he had often swarmed up the inside of the chimney when a boy. The sound of the pony's hoofs striking the stones of the wall as the warder led him through the gap caused Rupert to spring towards the chimney. In a second he was within the ruined furnace, grasping the iron bar which crossed the chimney some six feet above the ground.
He swung himself up, and placing his knees against the round wall in front of him, and with his back against the other side, he slowly worked himself up the narrow shaft until he was some twelve feet up. By jamming his feet in a niche from which the mortar had fallen out, and with his back thrust against the opposite wall, he made himself secure for the moment.
He heard the warder and the pony stumbling over the rubble which strewed the mouth of the ruined chimney; his heart was in his mouth. Pony and man were within the furnace, and the voice of the warder almost beneath him made Rupert look down in momentary expectation of meeting his upturned gaze; he saw his arm and shoulder already beneath the chimney—another moment he would be discovered.
A voice outside hailed the warder, and he stepped back—and disappeared.
For some little time Rupert heard the voice of men talking in the precincts of the powder mill. He strained his ears to try and hear what they said, but only caught odd words. He gathered that they were still searching both for him and Convict 303. He was relieved to know that his friend had not been caught; yet in his heart he realised it was only a matter of time. Once he reached home—if indeed he were lucky enough to succeed in doing so—he would only wait long enough to discover how things were with his father and sister, and to warn them that a fortune might still be lying within their grasp. He did not know how much of the little property had been mortgaged to Sir Reginald Crichton; he almost hoped the disused tin mine was included. As long as the interest was paid, the mortgage would remain undisturbed; and Sir Reginald had proved himself to be not only an upright gentleman, but a kind friend.
It was his one-time friend, Robert Despard, the man who had called himself his pal, whom he feared. Almost the last words the latter had spoken to him echoed ironically in his brain:
"I'll keep the secret about our radium mine, old man, never fear. It's safe with me!"
Various schemes flashed with lightning-like rapidity through Rupert's brain as he clung to his perilous position in the chimney above the furnace. He began to think that the men outside intended to remain there for the night—it seemed so long before they moved away, and he heard the beat of their ponies' hoofs growing fainter and fainter. But at last he knew they were really gone. Even then he waited awhile before he commenced to painfully clamber to the ground.
He was stiff and sore. His shoulder ached and throbbed where the stray buckshot had struck him. There was blood upon his hand, too, where he had cut it.
But he was still free. At first he moved cautiously, examining the country as much as was visible in all directions. The fog had partially cleared away, but it still lay in patches here and there.
There was not a soul in sight. Not a sound to be heard save the purling waters of the little Cherry Brook on his left. He knelt down and washed the blood from his hand, then took a drink. And suddenly he laughed under his breath.
It was good to be alive again—for he had not been living those past months in prison. He had been less alive than a caged animal. He had slept, eaten, worked, and exercised with mechanical-like precision. Even the agonies of mind he had undergone seemed unreal now. They did not even seem to matter—nothing mattered but the fact that he was free!
Free to sit or stand, to walk or run, to laugh or to cry. Free to move as he liked, look where he liked, do what he liked. He dug his hands into the soft peat and tore it up, and sniffed the sweet scent. He stood upright and stretched out his arms, then laughed aloud.
It was indeed good to be alive again. It was wonderful! The next moment he was trembling from head to foot, and his body broke out in a sweat. He was not to be alive for long. Even if he reached Blackthorn Farm and delivered his message he would have to give himself up and go back to prison. Back to that living grave!
He had told poor 303 that escape was absolutely impossible. Even if a man got outside Dartmoor and reached Tavistock or Exeter or Plymouth he was certain to be detected and brought back. His father would never hide him or help him—he knew that.
Yet if he once succeeded in getting home he could remain there hidden long enough to disguise himself, to grow a beard. And then one day, so altered as to be hardly recognisable, he might ship off to Canada or Australia.
His head swam: he put his hands up before his eyes for a moment. The sudden draught of freedom had intoxicated him.
Once again he gazed round the moorland. It was growing dark, the sun had set, and the western sky was still glowing red. Now and then a faint puff of wind stirred the trees surrounding the powder mill, and he saw stray banks of fog driving here and there, shifting their position. By crossing the stream he could step right into the white bank of mist.
Freedom! The thought of it had become an obsession now. Taking a run he cleared Cherry Brook and plunged into the fog. He knew his way now; he could have found it blindfold. But he went cautiously, for no man can be sure of himself if he once misses his way when a Dartmoor fog is down.
To reach Blackthorn Farm he would have to pass Post Bridge Hall, which lay between him and the East Dart. He kept edging towards the valley, for though it was near the main road, the fog lay more thickly there than in the higher ground.
It was rough going. Rocks and boulders and gorse bushes impeded the progress, invisible in the mist. Now and again he struck a boggy patch of ground and had to make a wide detour to avoid it. He had been walking for upwards of an hour, and he began to fear lest he had missed his way and perhaps been going round in a circle, when suddenly he stepped out into a clear, starlit night. Below him he saw the tiny village of Post Bridge, and almost directly in front of him red lights gleaming through the belt of trees.
Post Bridge Hall! Down on the bridge itself, near the little post office, he saw figures moving to and fro. He dropped on to his hands and knees behind the shelter of a rock. He heard the barking of a sheep dog, the voices of men and women travelled up to him.
Of course the news of the escape had spread, and the place was alive with people searching.
How eager men and women were to hunt their kind! He remembered how as a boy he had joined in just such a hunt.
He commenced to crawl along on all fours towards Post Bridge Hall. The trees there might shelter him, but it would be useless to try and cross the patch of country on the other side. He climbed a couple of stone walls, crossed a field, scrambled over a fence, and dropped straight into the garden of the Hall itself.
Lights gleamed from the windows. The front door stood wide open, and not a hundred yards away from him he saw the outer door of the glass conservatory which abutted from the drawing-room. He saw with surprise that this was open too.
For a long time he lay waiting, watching, afraid to go on—because he knew the fog would not descend again. The million eyes of the night watched him from a cloudless sky.
Presently from the woods behind him he heard voices and the barking of dogs. A gang of men were beating the spinney, searching for the two convicts.
Within sight of home he would be caught. He rose to his feet, crossed the narrow stretch of turf and walked boldly up the drive.
He stood a moment outside the conservatory door, listening. He heard nothing but the voices of the men in the wood and the barking of the dogs.
He stepped inside the conservatory, closed the door, and then, fumbling for the key, found it. He locked it, and drew the bolts top and bottom which he knew were there. Stooping down he crawled beneath the broad shelf which ran the length of the glass-house. The leaves of a palm and the fronds of a large fern gave him complete shelter.
He stretched himself out full length so as to lie perfectly flat, and as he did so his foot struck a pile of empty flower-pots. They fell over with a crash. He stopped breathing. He thought he detected a woman's voice in the drawing-room. A minute passed, but no one came.
He breathed again. He was safe for the time being. The conservatory door was locked. They would never search Sir Reginald Crichton's house! He was still a free man. And freedom to him now was more than anything else in the world. More than love or honour, or the wealth that might be lying hidden in the tin mine at home, waiting for his father and sister.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ALARMED.
Marjorie Dale only remained at Blackthorn Farm after her father's return from London long enough to nurse him back to health. When he had completely recovered from the effects of his accident she left home, Devonshire, and all she knew and loved. She went away as much in deference to her lover's wishes as to her father's, though so far as her own feelings were concerned she would have preferred to remain at Post Bridge and face public opinion—scandal, cruelty, and calumny. She knew that both she and her father would be social outcasts.
She had connections on her mother's side living at Calais. They were in the lace trade, and had spent the best part of their lives out of England. To them Marjorie was sent—not altogether as a guest. In return for a home and protection she was expected to play the part of nursery governess to their children and help in the housework.
No one was more delighted at this arrangement than Sir Reginald Crichton. Marjorie would be away for at least six months, and during that time much might happen.
Jim would learn to forget; work would help him.
He was so grateful that he made the mistake of thanking Marjorie for the step she was taking. But she read his thoughts as she had done before: she knew what he hoped would come from this parting between Jim and her.
"I'm going away, not for my father's sake, nor for yours, nor my own, but for Jim's sake," she explained. "I know that the parting will only strengthen our love, and his determination to marry me. With him I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world." She smiled when Sir Reginald shrugged his shoulders. "I know it's an unfashionable belief, yet everything in the world depends on love. The greatest men have always been the greatest lovers; even soldiers, sailors, and Empire builders. When I return from abroad Jim is going to announce our engagement. I'm not entirely selfish in agreeing to this; for I know that his happiness and his future lie in my hand."
Sir Reginald had nothing to say. He had proved that argument was useless. His son's attitude was a severe blow to him. For the moment love was stronger than reason or ambition, but he still believed that by waiting, love would weaken and even Jim would listen to wiser and more worldly counsels.
So Marjorie bade her lover farewell one grey autumn morning and left for France—but not before she had had an unpleasant interview with Robert Despard and taken a very unhappy farewell of her father.
For when Despard brought the old man back from London, he had stayed on at Blackthorn Farm, and he had seized every opportunity of making love to Marjorie—even after she had told him his case was hopeless, that her heart was already given.
Despard had merely laughed and said he intended to win her in spite of all opposition. At first his attitude puzzled her, for she could not conceive why a man of his type should wish to marry into a family whose name was now a byword in the county. Her father encouraged him, moreover, and did everything in his power to make her look kindly on Despard's suit.
It was only the night before she left for Calais that she discovered the reason.
Despard had insisted on paying off the mortgage which Sir Reginald held on Blackthorn Farm, and the homestead was once again her father's property. Crichton, too, had acted very generously in the matter of paying the conveyancing expenses himself.
Instead of being grateful, Marjorie was shocked and horrified. It seemed as if the three men had laid their heads together and planned this thing to put her in their power. It was a trick on Despard's part, and Sir Reginald had helped him—not really for John Dale's sake, but in order to save his own son from what he considered would be a mesalliance.
To a certain extent she was right. But Despard had another and stronger motive for his generosity in paying off the mortgage on the farm and handing the estate back to the man who had, only a month or two ago, been a stranger to him. The reason was to be found in the old tin mine where Rupert and he had suddenly discovered the presence of pitch-blende, firing their imaginations with thoughts of radium—and a fortune.
News of what was happening in the outside world seldom reached Marjorie in Calais. And the only news she received of what was taking place in the wilds of Dartmoor was contained in a weekly letter from her father. He refrained from telling her everything. Jim wrote to her daily. They were very wonderful letters telling her of his work, telling her of his love. But for those letters she would never have remained for half those long, weary months in the conventional Anglo-French family in the sleepy little town of Calais.
But even Jim did not know what was taking place at Blackthorn Farm until the news became public property, and the great boom which Despard cleverly engineered was burst on a credulous, Tango-dancing world.
By that time Marjorie had returned home to find Despard ensconsed at Blackthorn Farm, the land surrounded and over-run by a small army of men, and Jim Crichton still absent with his corps at Netheravon.
Marjorie hardly recognised her old home. It was over nine months since her brother had been convicted and sentenced. A change had taken place, too, in her, and she knew it. Six months abroad had made a great difference—mentally and physically. She had looked forward to returning to Blackthorn Farm in spite of its loneliness and the bitter memories she knew she would find there.
Her father met her at Newton Abbot station, and it was some minutes before he found her in the crowd of passengers who alighted from the West of England express. To the old man it seemed as if she had grown up suddenly. Grown from a girl into a woman. From a farmer's daughter into a lady.
"Why, how swagger we have become," he smiled. "I almost took you for a Frenchwoman with that smart little hat and dress, and those ridiculous shoes! It's lucky we haven't brought the dogcart, so you won't have to walk up the hills."
Marjorie imagined they would take the train to Moretonhampstead, and from thence by motor omnibus to Post Bridge. When she had collected her luggage, John Dale led her across the bridge and out of the station. And there she saw Robert Despard waiting in a motor-car. He seized the reluctant hand she gave him, and after pressing it warmly, put it to his lips.
"Welcome home!" he cried; then, turning to Dale: "By Jove, what a fine lady she's become! She'll be able to play the part to perfection, eh?"
Marjorie flushed with resentment and disappointment. Despard was the last person in the world she wanted to see.
"Have I got to drive home in that thing?" she cried, pointing disdainfully to the motor-car.
While the luggage was being strapped on, Dale explained that it belonged to Mr. Despard, and that he kindly allowed them to make use of it.
"It belongs to the syndicate," Despard replied. "There have been great happenings at Post Bridge since you went away, Marjorie. I'm afraid you'll find the place changed—not the farmhouse itself, but the surrounding waste land."
"Mr. Despard has discovered that we've been living with a fortune under our feet all these years," Dale explained.
He looked anxiously at his daughter and took her hand; but she made no response. After two or three attempts at conversation when the car had started, Dale relapsed into silence. It was not easy to talk at the pace they went, with the wind singing in their ears. And in his heart, too, he felt a little afraid of Marjorie. A little frightened at the quick march of events since she had been away. And perhaps just a little ashamed.
Marjorie guessed what had happened. When Blackthorn Farm was reached, she knew. But instead of feeling grateful or elated, disgust seized her. Within a few hundred yards of the farm, hideous corrugated iron buildings had sprung up; the land all around the tin mine had been cleared and levelled. Plant was being erected; scattered here and there were temporary dwellings, and offices for the workmen; a miniature railway line had already been laid on the ancient granite track. Tears rose to her eyes as she looked at the desecration that had been done to her moorlands and her home.
"Whose work is this?" she asked. "Mr. Despard's, of course! I suppose Sir Reginald gave permission——"
Dale explained all that had happened, and the generous part Despard had played. "I owe him a debt I can never repay. Ruin stared us in the face, Marjorie, and through him it has been averted. When—when my boy comes out of prison—though I hope I shall not live to see that day—he will at least have the chance of living a decent life, of wiping out the crime he committed, and becoming a useful citizen. He will have the opportunity, for he will be a rich man. God grant that he takes it."
Marjorie shook her head. "Mr. Despard is a stranger to us. It's unlike you, father, to accept so much from a stranger. What does Mr. Despard expect in return?"
The old man turned away. "Nothing. Of course he'll share in our good fortune. He'll take the larger share of whatever money we make. I have insisted on that. A company will be floated—it's in the course of promotion already. It's a gamble, to a certain extent. I believe there's a deal of opposition; there are men who scoff at the idea of traces of radium having been discovered here. Other eminent men have made exhaustive tests, and their report leads us to believe there is no doubt that we shall be able to extract radium from the mine. But I've refused to take a single penny in cash; I'm to be paid entirely in shares."
"And how is Mr. Despard to be paid?"
"I don't believe he has thought of himself," Dale replied. "He'll join the board of directors, of course, and I suppose he'll receive a certain number of shares. He'll become a very famous man, Marjorie. I've seen a lot of him during the past few months, and my respect has grown daily. He has thrown himself heart and soul into this business. At first every one scoffed at him, but lately a change has taken place in public opinion here. Even Sir Reginald is converted. Can't you guess why Mr. Despard has worked so hard and been so generous? I'm sure his love for you, born originally of pity, has been the motive."
"Then I'm sorry," Marjorie said quickly. "Even if I were not engaged to Jim I could never care for Mr. Despard. I dislike and distrust him. The sooner he realises this the better."
John Dale sighed and shook his head. He had forced himself to believe his daughter would forget. He had hoped, he had prayed, that she would have grown to see things in a reasonable way, and that this sudden promise of wealth would entirely change her point of view of life and love.
"Sir Reginald will never consent to his son marrying you," he replied harshly. "Why, Jim is little more than a boy, he doesn't know his own mind. He has already forgotten."
Marjorie smiled and said nothing more. She knew that she would see him in a few days' time, for he had applied for special leave on urgent private affairs, and he had written assuring her that he would be at the Hall again within twelve or fourteen days. He also hinted that he had important work in hand, that he might be doing some long distance flights on a new monoplane containing improvements, which were his own inventions, later on in the year. And he was down for early promotion.
The twelve days of waiting for her lover's return were long and weary ones. Blackthorn Farm was no longer the lonely, forgotten homestead, tucked away in a secluded part of the moorlands it had been formerly. Tourists and trippers thronged to look at the curious old farmhouse and to watch the works being erected a few hundred yards away. The place was over-run by workmen. All day long cars and lorries were rushing to and fro along the main road between Princetown and Post Bridge and Moretonhampstead. Solitude and loneliness, which had been so easy to find in the old days, disappeared. Marjorie had to take long walks before she knew she was safe from intrusion. She dreaded meeting friends and acquaintances more than the strangers who came to stare at her old home. She was not afraid of being cut or shunned. Instinct warned her, that now it was known vast wealth was hidden in the old mine, people would conveniently forget the shame that had fallen on her name. They would no longer think of her as the convict's sister, but as the future heiress. Shame made her want to hide from every one but her lover. Even from her father and the labourers and farm hands on the estate.
She was ashamed—not of herself or her brother, but of them!
At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from her lover saying that he would reach Post Bridge Hall that evening. Of course the news of the happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried to him. He told Marjorie that his father would be absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall. He did not want anyone to know of his arrival.
So Marjorie said nothing. Her love had become too precious a thing to be talked about. Moreover, she did not want Despard to know of Jim's presence at the Hall. Feeling secure in the knowledge that John Dale approved of his love for Marjorie, Despard had pressed his suit on every available opportunity, giving her no peace. When he found it was useless to plead, he even threatened her.
But Marjorie laughed in his face.
"You can laugh now," he said savagely. "But I mean to make you my wife. I mean to win you. Not many men would have done for a woman what I've done for you. I've saved you from poverty, I've saved you from disgrace. Perhaps when we're married I can save your brother from prison."
She had always believed in her heart that Despard could have proved Rupert's innocence if he had chosen to speak at the trial. And these words returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.
Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left the farm and walked in the direction of Beardown, intending to pass the rest of the day there reading, until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall. When the fog came down, she had to slightly alter her plans, and she made for the main road as she knew she could not lose her way there. She was terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered close to Post Bridge Hall until it began to grow dark. She scarcely heard the boom of the warning signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on meeting the man she loved. It was just as the fog lifted and she was making her way by the long drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook her and pulled up, and Jim jumped to the ground.
They looked at one another, but spoke no word. Telling the chauffeur to take the car on, Jim slipped his arm through Marjorie's, and together they walked up to the house. Not until they had entered the drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing, did Jim Crichton speak. He took Marjorie's hand in his and looked deep into her eyes.
"I can hardly believe that you are really here," he whispered. "It seems too good to be true. The months have been like years. But you have never been absent from me—even in my work you have always been beside me. By day and by night. If I had ever doubted that love was the greatest thing in the world I should know it now."
Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she tried to speak, but no words came. He had said just what she wanted him to say. And he had said it quietly, almost coldly.
For a few moments there was silence. Then he released her hands, and opening his arms he took her in them and, holding her tightly, covered her face with kisses. The pent-up passion burst. The months of separation, the obstacles that had been placed in their way, instead of killing their love, had increased it ten-fold.
"My dear, my dear one, what does anything else in the world matter so long as we have one another!" Jim whispered.
"Nothing," she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears—tears of joy. "Nothing—but I'm a woman. Therefore love is all in all to me. But you're a man, and——"
He silenced her with his lips: "And helpless, useless without his mate."
The darkness increased. The old oak-panelled room was only lit by the dancing flames from the log fire. There was silence in the house, and outside on the moorlands there was silence, too. Presently it was broken by the shouts of men and the baying of dogs. But the lovers did not hear.
They only heard the beating of each other's hearts and the voice of Love calling them to walk fearlessly along the path they had chosen. And the voice of Fate calling them to face the unknown future together.
Twice a servant knocked at the door before Jim heard, and starting up told him to enter.
"Well, what is it?" he asked, striking a match to light the candles, fearful lest his father had returned earlier than he expected.
The servant explained that an official from Princetown Prison wished to see him. "I understand, sir," the man said in an excited voice, "that a couple of convicts escaped this afternoon in the fog. They traced one in this direction. He was wounded by a shot the warder fired. They want permission to search the grounds and out-buildings."
Jim hesitated for a moment. "Of course they can search," he replied. "You know where the keys of the garage, the stables, and the out-buildings are, Perkins. You had better accompany them; and be sure to lock up carefully."
"Very good, sir!"
The servant was about to retire when the burly form of a uniformed warder blocked the doorway. He saluted.
"I understand Sir Reginald is away; can I speak to you a moment, sir?"
Jim glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie. She was hidden from sight, seated in a large armchair.
"Certainly," he replied. He crossed the room and stepped into the hall, closing the drawing-room door behind him.
As he did so a noise from the conservatory on the left of the fireplace startled Marjorie. The sound of a sudden crash. She listened a moment, then rose to her feet.
Very quietly stepping towards the door which led into the hot-house, she pulled back the curtain and peered through the glass panel.
CHAPTER XIX.
"YOU MUST GO BACK!"
Marjorie could see nothing. It was quite dark outside now. She listened, straining her ears, but not another sound could be heard. Whatever had fallen or been knocked down had made a great noise. Obviously, some one was in the conservatory.
She turned the handle of the door; it was unlocked, and it opened. Her first thought was that perhaps one of the dogs had been shut in by mistake. As she stepped down on to the tessellated pavement into the darkness she experienced a sudden little throb of fear. For the thought came that perhaps one of the escaped convicts had made his way into the conservatory and was hiding there. The fear went as quickly as it came. Her eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, saw dimly outlined the delicate fronds of the ferns and the graceful palms and overhead the green of the clambering vine. The air was heavy with the warm and subtle odour of forced growth.
She made her way to the door leading into the garden, and found it locked and bolted. So no one could have possibly entered that way. She gave a whistle and snapped her fingers, still thinking that one of the dogs might be there. There was no response.
She was turning away when her foot struck a portion of broken pot. Stooping down she saw that a large pile of them had been overturned, and the majority lay in fragments on the ground, behind them a tin bucket from which water was still trickling.
She gave a little laugh—it seemed so mysterious. And then her brow puckered in a frown.... Had some one been listening and spying on them? The idea was ridiculous, and yet—the bucket, obviously half full of water, and the pile of pots could not have fallen there on their own account. It was just possible that a large rat——
She stooped down to peer under the shelf. As she did so she was conscious of footsteps on the gravel outside, and at the same moment a brighter light shone through the door leading into the drawing-room. A servant had brought in the lamp. Then she heard Jim's voice, obviously speaking to one of the warders from the prison.
The ferns and the drooping tendrils of plants and a bank of moss blocked her view underneath the shelf; the light from the drawing-room fell at the wrong angle. Bending lower she brushed aside a clump of ferns.
And she saw, pressed tightly against the wall, the outline of a foot and leg. Some one was hiding there.
The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers.
One of the escaped convicts! She caught her breath, and drawing back stood upright, uncertain for the moment what to do. The door was bolted on the inside, and with Jim and the warders a few feet away in the drawing-room he was trapped. There was no escape. She hesitated a moment, not in the least alarmed, only surprised and a little overwhelmed by her discovery. She knew that the moorlands must be alive with men searching; already, probably, the outbuildings and the houses were being ransacked—and here the convict lay, at her feet.
The next thought was that he must have heard her enter and knew that she had discovered him. She wondered why he had not attacked her and tried to bolt.
"Marjorie—where are you?"
She started at the sound of her lover's voice. It brought her back to a sense of her duty. As she turned towards the drawing-room she heard—him saying good-night to the warder to whom he had been talking.
"One moment," she cried, "I want you, Jim."
Something stirred at her feet. A movement from the hunted creature lying hidden beneath the ferns and flowers.
Suddenly, in a flash, she felt as if her soul, her whole being, had changed places with his. She experienced the agony that he was feeling—alternating hope and fear. The desire to live and escape at all costs, and the desire to kill those who stood between him and liberty. She heard herself draw her breath with difficulty, with hard, sharp gasps. Her body broke out into a sweat. She trembled from head to foot.
Then she felt Jim's hand on her arm. "Hello, dear, what are you doing out here in the darkness?"
She turned her back on him, afraid lest the light coming through the open door shone on her face. Again she heard a stealthy movement of feet followed by a shuffling under the shelf. The convict knew the game was up and was coming out.
"Don't move," she cried, scarcely knowing what she said.
With an effort she steadied herself and gained self-control. Against the wall on her right a Maréchal Niel rose-tree had been trained. A yellow bud caught her eyes just out of reach. Jim Crichton entered the conservatory.
"I wanted to steal that rose," she whispered. "I'm not tall enough. Do pick it for me, Jim."
"Silly child," he laughed. "You gave me quite a fright. I thought something was wrong."
Standing on tip-toe, he picked the rosebud and gave it her. Bending her head she placed her lips to it. Jim kissed the top of her head, then, turning away, tried the outer door.
"That's all right. No one can get in here. Come along back to the drawing-room, Marjorie. Those fellows will have finished searching in a minute and we shall be left in peace again. It's rather serious, you know, a couple of convicts getting away. But, of course, they'll catch them all right—though I'm afraid they'll have to wait until the morning now."
Taking her hand he led her back to the drawing-room. He was closing the conservatory door when she asked him to leave it open.
"It seems rather hot in here."
"Well, it's hotter in there," he laughed.
He put his arms around her and gazed into her eyes. "I'm jealous of every minute that's stolen from us. I shall never let you go away again for such a long period. It's been bad enough for me, and I've had work that I love. It must have been worse for you, darling."
She nodded, and laid her face on his shoulder. "That's all gone, dear. This hour is ours—and there's the future.... Jim, I have a confession to make."
"Well, come and sit down in the arm-chair and make it," he laughed. "Let me hold you in my arms as if you were a child, for that's all you are sometimes."
"Not now. I'm a woman. No," as he made a movement, "listen to me, Jim. While I was away from you I had no doubts about the future. I was certain that I could make you happy, that love was the principal thing in life. I'm not so sure now."
She felt his grip tighten. "Why, just now you confessed——"
"I confessed whatIfelt," she interrupted. "I want you to confess. I want you to look far, far into the future ... and also to remember the past. Remember what I am—and what my brother is."
Against her will her eyes were drawn towards the conservatory where the convict was hiding. An outcast, an outlaw, wearing the shameful uniform of crime. Just such a man was her brother. Wearing just the same uniform, living the same life, thinking the same thoughts. Just as desperate. Her brother: herded with other criminals in one of the great prisons of England. She had been speaking her thoughts, saying just what she felt. She knew that she was speaking them to gain time. She ought not to have wasted one moment before telling Jim of the man hiding a few yards away from them. Warders were at that moment searching outbuildings and the gardens. She was committing an unlawful act in not giving him up. She was making her lover party to her guilt.
But she could not tell him. For one dreadful moment she had entered into that wretched man's feelings. It was as if she had taken his place in the darkness out there where he was hiding.
She wanted him to escape! She was incapable of reasoning that moment. Perhaps the taint of crime was in her blood. Perhaps her brother really had been guilty of robbing her lover's father.
"My dearest little one, you needn't trouble about my future. I shall really only begin to live when you're my wife. I can't lose my job—if I do I can find another. And your love will make me twice as keen on my work, for you will share in it. We have each got our job to do, and we shall do it better for being together. That's all about it."
She heard his voice, as from a distance off. As he finished speaking she heard footsteps in the hall—the opening of the front door.
Some one knocked at the drawing-room door. It opened, and the servant admitted the chief warder.
"We've searched carefully, sir," he said to Jim, who put Marjorie from him and stood in front of her. "And some of my men have been right through the gardens and shrubberies, but they ain't hiding anywhere here. No doubt you'll see that your men-servants keep a sharp look-out. One man's badly hit—but he was a sharpish one, he was. I'm afraid there ain't much chance of getting them to-night, but we shall have them as soon as day breaks." He saluted. "Good-night, sir. Good-night, ma'am."
The drawing-room door closed, and Marjorie listened to the footsteps crossing the hall. "We shall get them as soon as day breaks." Automatically she repeated the words the warder had spoken.
"Jim, come here quickly. I have something I must tell you before the warders go."
He turned towards her, frowning, a look of amazement on his face. Even then she hesitated. She heard the front door close. The warders had gone. Taking Jim by the arm she led him towards the conservatory.
"There's some one hiding in there," she whispered. "When you left the room to speak to the chief warder I heard a crash from the conservatory. I went in, and under the shelf I saw a man crouched up. His clothes bore the broad arrow. He's one of the convicts who escaped."
Jim looked at her with unbelieving eyes. Then putting her aside, he stepped quickly towards the conservatory. Suddenly he stopped and swung round.
"Marjorie! You're certain of this? Why didn't you speak—before the warders left?"
Something moved in the darkness of the hothouse. Slowly out of the masses of foliage a head and shoulders emerged. Jim sprang to the bell and rang it.
"What are you going to do?" Marjorie whispered.
"Send Perkins to call the warders back. Give the fellow up," he replied sharply. "You ought to have told me at once, Marjorie. You had better wait in the dining-room."
He stood in the doorway blocking the exit. Marjorie stood in front of him and laid her hands on his arms.
"Jim—you mustn't give him up. It's horrible."
He tried to push her away.
"Jim," her voice rose piercingly. "My brother is a convict.... You needn't hide him, but just let him go—give him a sporting chance. Let him go. No one will ever know. Give him a chance."
"Silence, dear. You don't know what you're saying."
The door opened and Perkins entered the room. For a moment there was silence. Not a sound from the conservatory now. Not a sound from the garden outside. The barking of the dogs and the voices of the men had died away.
"You rang, sir?"
"Bring the glasses, a syphon of soda water, and the whisky," Jim said in a strained voice.
Directly the servant had gone he pointed to the sofa on the other side of the fireplace away from the entrance to the conservatory.
"Marjorie, dear, go and sit down there. I understand, and I'm sorry; but I must do my duty."
She looked at him dry-eyed. All the tenderness had left her face. "It's five-score of men against one. Open the door and let him go. Yes, he's bound to be caught to-morrow, but every hour, every minute, every second of freedom must be as sweet to him as our love is to us, Jim. Give him a run—for his money."
Jim had turned his back on her. He disappeared into the conservatory and the door closed behind him.
Perkins brought the tumblers and the whisky into the room and placed them on a small table.
"Quite exciting, miss, this escape of two convicts. Hasn't been an escape from Princetown for a long time. What with that and this radium mine on Mr. Dale's estate——"
He suddenly stopped and coughed deprecatingly. He, too, in speaking of convicts had forgotten that he was speaking to a convict's sister.
Marjorie waited. For a long time she heard no sound. Then Jim's voice, strained and very stern. Not the voice of a lover now, but the voice of a soldier—even something more than that, the voice of a man under the strain of great emotion.
Presently she detected an answering voice. She rose to her feet, and standing against the conservatory door peered through the glass.
She could see the outlines of the two men distinctly. One her lover, the other the convict. Jim turned, and as he did so he saw her. She saw him push the convict back, then, mounting the steps, he opened the door.
"Go back!" he cried fiercely. "Go—away—into the dining-room."
"You must tell me what you're going to do."
She looked into his face, but his eyes fell. His mouth looked merely a thin line, his jaws protruded. She put her hand on his arm—it was like a steel band.
"Go away, do you hear! Go away, do you hear! Wait until I come to you." He commanded now.
He tried to push her across the room. She clung to him and stood her ground. She stared into his face, forced his eyes to meet hers.
"You are hiding something from me, Jim.... You are going to give him up——"
Suddenly he seized her wrists in a grip of iron. "You know who's hiding out there," he said between his teeth.
"A convict—that's all I know——"
A sound from the conservatory made Jim turn his head. Marjorie wrenched herself free. Out of the darkness beyond the conservatory door the figure of the convict emerged. Marjorie stopped as she saw him.
"Go back!" Jim cried.
The convict spoke. "It's too late! I'm a coward, I know. But liberty's dearer than life now." He held out his arms to Marjorie. "Hide me, for God's sake, hide me!"
She put out her hands as if to keep him off. Her lips framed his name. The name of her brother! It rattled in her throat. She turned to her lover.
"I didn't know, Jim, I didn't know!"
He nodded. "Speak quietly. Sit down there."
Crossing the room, he locked the drawing-room door. He motioned Rupert to the arm-chair and made him place it so that if he had to open the door no one would see him. Then he poured out a stiff whisky and soda and gave it him to drink. The tumbler rattled between his teeth as he emptied the contents. He laid it on the floor by his side, then he looked at Jim, avoiding his sister's eyes.
"I—I was hunted here. I didn't come purposely. When I broke away it was not to escape.... I had a message. But the taste of liberty has grown so sweet that—that nothing else matters!"
He stopped, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "But before it comes to a question of—of fighting for my freedom—in case I go under, you had better hear what I've got to say. It's for Marjorie and my father I escaped. It was not for you or your father's ears, Mr. Crichton—I want to make sure that swine Despard doesn't cheat us of our rights."
He paused a moment as if expecting an interruption, but neither Jim nor Marjorie spoke. They were as motionless as figures of stone.
"Just before—before I was accused of robbing your father, Mr. Crichton, Despard and I found there was pitch-blende in the old tin mine by Blackthorn Farm. Despard made experiments with it and—he got a report from Vardoff—you may have heard of him—an expert. The report said there were good grounds for supposing that radium might be——"
Then Jim Crichton stopped him. "Save your breath. We know this. Why, already the plant is being erected, a company floated. Mr. Despard has apparently done quite the right thing. Anyway, the property belongs to your father again, and if there's any truth in the report he'll make a fortune. If that's all you came to say, all you wanted to know, you can go back to prison with an easy conscience." He spoke brutally. "You must go back, you know."
"I am innocent."
"That's not the question now. You must go back."
Slowly Rupert turned and looked at his sister. "Marjorie. Help me! Say a word for me. He loves you.... Ask him, and he'll help me to escape. For he can, now. The warders won't come back here. I'm safe for the moment. Marjorie—speak. You are my flesh and blood. Speak! It's my life I'm pleading for."