CHAPTER XX.PLANS FOR ESCAPE.Marjorie looked at her lover. He met her gaze fairly. But she saw fear in his eyes—a thing she had never seen there before.She knew he had never known the meaning of fear until now. Then she looked at her brother. Crossing to his side she told him to stand up."Look at me, Rupert. Tell me whether you're innocent or guilty—one moment, before you speak. I know, but I want to hear the truth from your lips.""It can make no difference." Jim Crichton spoke. "He has been found guilty. He has escaped from prison. He must go back to prison."Brother and sister were standing close together, facing one another fearlessly now. To Jim listening and watching it seemed a long time before Rupert spoke."I am innocent," he said at last.Marjorie put her arms around him, holding him closely and tightly. "I knew it."Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. "Who was the guilty person? Do you know that?""Yes. I know that.""Who was it?" Her voice rose triumphantly.Again there was a long silence. Jim turned his back. He was fighting against the fear which possessed him. He was afraid of himself. Emotions of which he had never before been conscious filled his heart—war against ideals, principles and faiths to which he had been brought up."I shall never say who was guilty."Marjorie gave vent to a little cry: a cry of joy. She took her brother's hands, both of them, and covered them with kisses. Roughly he snatched them away and stood back."I've given you my message—though it has come too late. I don't know what Despard has done for you, but don't trust him, Marjorie. Warn father.... When I said just now that I had had no intention of escaping it was true. But now I have escaped I don't mean to go back. If you won't help me, if the man who loves you does his duty and gives me up, then I shall fight for it."He backed across the room as he spoke, and gazed around as if seeking for some weapon.Marjorie stepped towards her lover and held out her arms. "Jim!"He shook his head, and crossing the room unlocked the door."Jim! What are you going to do?""I must do my duty."She followed him. "Your duty to the State? But what of me. Yes, I am pleading for myself now. For the love we bear one another."The door-handle rattled in his hand. He stood with his back towards her. "Marjorie, don't tempt me.""I'm not tempting you," she replied quietly. "I'm asking you calmly and coldly to save my brother. I know what I'm asking. I know that if you hide him and if he's discovered you will be ruined. I realise the awful responsibility I'm putting on you. I'm doing a terrible thing, but I'm doing it with my eyes open, conscious of the love I bear you.... Still, I ask it. Save him."Beads of perspiration stood on Rupert's forehead. He was trembling from head to foot as if with an ague. The muscles of his face worked convulsively."Just let me go then. I'll take my chance outside. They'll never know I was here, I'll swear to that. A few hours' more freedom—that's all I want. I might get back home and see my father for a moment.... They won't take me alive. I can't go back to that granite hell at Princetown. Death's easier. I'm not afraid—for I can die fighting ... but to be taken back like a dog on a chain, to be put into a hole where there is neither night nor day, only silence and four narrow walls, and a cup of water and a piece of bread——"Jim held up his hand. "Silence, Dale. Don't say any more. This rests between Marjorie and me. There is one thing, however, you should know—I am going to marry your sister."Rupert made a movement forward, then stopped. "I told you just now that I was a coward," he cried fiercely, his voice rising. "I am no longer a man. Prison has done its work quickly.... All I want now is freedom. I don't care how I get it. I was neither a thief nor a liar nor a coward when I was convicted nine months ago, but I am now, and I'll lie, cheat, kill—for freedom. I'm going to get out of this house alive even if they shoot me like a dog outside your garden gate. So now you know.""Be silent," Jim said again. He turned round and looked at Marjorie. "You have heard. What do you say?""Save him. Perhaps I am asking you the greatest thing in the world. If my love is worth the sacrifice—make it."He took her hands in his then. They were as cold as ice. She scarcely looked beautiful. The agony she was undergoing had distorted her features."Wait here. I shall not be long."He left the room, closing the door behind him. Marjorie stood with her back to it, supporting herself against it. Rupert stared round the room, crossed to the conservatory door and closed it. He pulled the curtain at the window closer. He picked up the decanter of whisky as if to help himself again, but changed his mind and put it down. Twice he tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips."Sit down, dear," Marjorie said, striving to regain her normal voice. "You must be very tired."He nodded his head but remained standing. Jim was absent a long time. Now and then sounds they would not have heard under ordinary circumstances startled the brother and sister waiting in the drawing-room—waiting far apart. Once they had been all in all to one another; now a third person stood between them, and in his hands lay Rupert's life.At last Rupert spoke. "I can't stand this much longer. Marjorie, open the door and let me go. I'm asking too much. Let me go and take my chance."She shook her head. "Wait."At last Jim returned. He left the door open and beckoned to Rupert. "Follow me."The convict glanced at him. There was no need to question. He crossed the room on tip-toe, holding his breath. His expression was that of a hunted animal, his movements the same.The door closed and Marjorie was alone. An hour passed, but now she was unconscious of time. She sat on the Chesterfield staring into space. She was only conscious of Jim's presence when she felt his arms around her."Father may return any moment," he said. She heard a sob of fear in his voice, it had changed. She did not recognise it as the voice of her lover. "I'm afraid you must go. Before you go I must tell you what I've done and what I hope to do. Listen, dear—and remember.""I am listening, Jim.""You know my workroom at the back of the house, just underneath my bedroom? It was built out for me just before I joined the R.F.C. Underneath it is a cellar where I keep a few things stored—plant, bits of machinery, petrol, and so forth. Some of the plant I want for my experiments is there and a small furnace. The entrance to my workroom is always locked and the way to the cellar bolted and padlocked, too. I've hidden him there, in the cellar. Binks, my bull terrier, always sleeps in the workroom. He knows Rupert, remembered him and made friends at once. He would give warning if anyone approached.... I've given Rupert a change of clothes and food—enough of the latter to last him twenty-four hours in case of need. I spend half the day in my workroom always, so—he won't feel lonely. A fortnight or three weeks at least must pass before we can dream of escape. He can change his appearance in that time, too."He waited a moment. Marjorie said nothing, but he felt her body tremble. He held her tighter."I've thought of a way. It seems the only way, but, at the same time, it means the greatest risk. I'll tell you now in case there's not another opportunity. We may want your help. In about three weeks' time I'm doing a special flight—a long distance flight from Netheravon to Plymouth, carrying a passenger. It isn't long enough to attract public attention. As an experiment I am using a new engine and trying a little invention of my own which the Government may take up. A certain amount of secrecy will, therefore, be observed. I shall be free to make whatever arrangements I like, take whatever course I choose, and so forth. My idea, hazy at present, is that Rupert shall be my passenger. If I can pick him up and land him at Plymouth he'll stand a chance, a fairly good one, perhaps. Luckily, he knows every inch of Dartmoor, so do I. A monoplane doesn't attract as much attention as it used to, and if the public doesn't know anything about the flight or the direction I'm taking, I may manage to pass over the wildest part of Dartmoor, Cranmere Pool, for example, come down there unnoticed, and pick up Rupert.... Don't say anything, dear, and now go. If you're asked, don't hesitate to say where you've spent this evening. Hide nothing—except the fact that you've seen your brother. Any distress you may show would be perfectly natural. Blackthorn Farm is sure to be watched day and night. You and your father will be watched and followed, probably, but that needn't prevent your coming up here if you want to see me. I won't announce our engagement until Rupert is safe, in case it arouses suspicion." He led her to the door. "Good-night, dear. God bless you.""God bless you," she stammered. "It is mean to ask now, but tell me one thing more before I go. You don't hate me? I've asked the impossible, and you have done it—you won't hate me when you realise what you've done?"He forced her eyes to meet his and he smiled bravely. "I realised what I was doing before I did it, dear. It's a big thing. It's like war. That's all now. I love you better than——"The sentence was unfinished. He kissed her lips, and opening the door led her through the hall out into the garden. There he wished her good-night again, loudly, in a cheery tone of voice, and watched her until she was out of sight.The fog had quite disappeared. The million eyes of the night shone from a cloudless sky. An owl hooted from a wood on the right. Down in the valley the East Dart sang its way to the sea.Jim Crichton looked up at the sky. And presently he smiled. It was good to be a soldier and to fight. It was better to be a man, and to love.CHAPTER XXI.READY FOR FLIGHT.Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert's report that radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too excited—even though still sceptical—over this discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts.No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large. The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was reported—but 381 was not found.The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being captured was almost without precedent.At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught."He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I came across him now I'm not sure I'd give him up."The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his would-be captors for many weeks.When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of country had been searched and no stone left unturned—indeed, there was not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination—then the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at least got out of Devonshire.The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case.Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim's workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her sake ceased to worry her.She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool, deliberate way in which she played it.The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before Rupert's escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now, she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her—suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at watch—and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps towards the Hall.She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert's escape, when he had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face told her all was well.There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done. She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility. Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal.She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom; doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them. Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.No risk could be too great to save her brother. She knew a chance would never occur again. And if he were caught and sent back until he had served his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer be a man but really and truly a criminal—something distorted, hideous, unnatural. A human being at war with humanity.It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim Crichton presented himself at the farm to say good-bye before going back to Netheravon to join his corps. Rupert's escape had never been spoken of in the farmhouse. Dale had forbidden his name to be mentioned, and Marjorie sometimes wondered if her father had lost all feeling for his only son. She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his hiding-place he would instantly inform the police and give him up."I suppose when we meet again you will be millionaires," Crichton said cheerily. "I see a prospectus is being issued next week of The Blackthorn Development Company. I shall apply for a few shares—just for luck.""I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard answered. "The Company will be subscribed two or three times over. You go back to Netheravon to-morrow?"Jim nodded."Alone?"There was a moment's silence. Marjorie caught her breath. There seemed to be a challenge in Despard's voice."Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I can't take Marjorie with me—yet. Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall fly off together, man and wife."Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room. "Perhaps," he murmured under his breath.Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man held his hand a few moments longer than was necessary."It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the promise you gave Marjorie; but if you insist on making her your wife, you'll break your father's heart, Mr. Crichton.""I hope not. I hope he'll come to see things my way. But if I had to make a choice, Mr. Dale, I'd rather break his than hers."Dale sighed and nodded his head. "I suppose youth must be served," he whispered. "Perhaps it's just that the old should suffer. My boy has broken my heart—that's why I feel for your father.""You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?" Jim said."Of course I am. Why, he confessed it!"Jim turned away. "Perhaps one day his innocence may be proved, Mr. Dale. Oh, I don't want to raise false hopes in your breast. But I'm beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent of the crime of which he was convicted. While there's life there's hope, remember."He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far as Post Bridge with me, will you? We will say good-bye at the place where we first confessed our love."Once they were alone it was not of love they spoke. They walked side by side, and now and then Marjorie laughed. If anyone had overheard, if anyone had been watching them, they would never have guessed of what these two lovers were talking.Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape. He outlined them in detail to Marjorie. Her help would be wanted; and her task, he said, would perhaps be the most difficult task.On Monday evening she would receive a telegram from him telling her of the flight he was going to make from Netheravon to Plymouth. On receipt of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall, ostensibly at a request the telegram would contain, to show the message to Jim's father. But she would find Sir Reginald out. Jim knew he would be at Moretonhampstead on business. She was to wait for him, and Jim gave her the keys of his workroom and cellar. Rupert already had duplicates. The telegram would contain certain code words, of which Jim gave her the translation. She was to find some way of giving her brother the message they contained—the exact hour he was to leave his hiding-place and make his way across Dartmoor to a certain spot already decided on."If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said. "But as far as is humanly possible he can't fail. No one would recognise in the smart, soldierly-looking young fellow the late Convict 381. If he gets safely away I shall send you a wire from Plymouth—just two words: 'Flight successful,' that's all. There's only one man I fear: the man who would like to be my rival—Despard. Once or twice in the evening lately I've seen him hanging around The Hall. It's impossible he could suspect the plans we've formed. I don't believe for an instant he knows where Rupert's hiding. If he did, he'd speak, and give him up, or only keep silence on condition that you——"Marjorie stopped him. "You needn't fear, Jim. He suspects something, I know. On Monday night, after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make it my business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I know that Rupert's safely away. I can keep him—I'm a woman."They reached the bridge, and stood for a few minutes gazing down into the foaming waters. Presently Jim held out his hand:"Au revoir," he said quietly. And he lowered his voice for a moment. "Next time we meet I hope I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket.""Au revoir, my lover," she whispered. "Remember, whatever happens, I'm yours and only yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding cheerily, he strode away. She watched him out of sight. He was risking his life, his honour, his reputation, for her sake. If he failed, she knew she would never see him again.CHAPTER XXII.JIM STARTS OFF.The great plain stretched away in the sunlight, broken only by the silver line of the little Avon river and the Downs—like giant molehills—to the north.It was early morning, but all was activity and bustle at Netheravon.The great rows of "hangars" gleaming in the bright sunshine were already open, and groups of men—mechanics and cleaners—were busy on the aeroplanes they contained.A group of officers of the Royal Flying Corps was gathered around a monoplane that had been run outside, and was being tuned up by a number of mechanics.The two or three civilians with note-books in their hands were evidently pressmen. Something unusual was afoot, for half a dozen horsemen had just cantered into the aerodrome and, dismounting, approached the little crowd round the monoplane.Suddenly it opened out and the group of officers saluted the smart, iron-featured, white-haired veteran who approached with a slight limp, his beribboned coat eloquent of hard service to the wealthy citizens of a thankless nation who greedily devour the spoils that they are too lazy in lending a hand in obtaining."Good-morning, gentlemen. Is Lieutenant Crichton here?"Jim stepped forward and saluted. He was in service dress, with a safety helmet in place of the usual forage cap."Well, I hope the weather is satisfactory, Crichton?" the Chief said."Yes, sir, thank you; it is a perfect day for a flight."The General then asked several technical questions about the monoplane. "You are taking a passenger with you, are you not?""Yes, sir."The General turned away, and Crichton saluted. Quite a number of people were arriving from every direction, and it had evidently become generally known that a special flight was about to be attempted.Meanwhile the monoplane was ready. Jim climbed into his seat and started the engine. In a few moments he gave the signal to let go, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it gracefully rose in the air and was soon far over the plain. Suddenly it dipped and began to descend."By Jove, he's coming down. Something wrong—look! He's hit the ground—see the dust?" And similar exclamations rose from the crowd."Take my car, Johnson, and see what's wrong, will you?" said the Flight Commander—and in a moment the car was speeding across the plain."Look! Look!" shouted some one. "See the dust he's making!" In another moment the monoplane was seen in the air."By Jove, he's up again. Splendid! That's the first time this machine has left the ground single-handed, I'll bet. He's coming back."In a minute or two the aeroplane began to descend. It brought up nearly on the spot it had started from.Jim clambered down, and to the volley of questions from his brother officers merely explained that he had dropped his note-book, and had descended to pick it up."Look here, Major," Jim said to the Commandant. "I want to take my servant, Jackson, instead of young Hayward, but I don't like to tell him myself. Will you break it to him gently?""Good lord, Crichton, why on earth did you not say so before? Why do you prefer Jackson?""I shall have a much better chance with Jackson if I have to descend with engine trouble, because he's a trained mechanic, as you know, while young Hayward would be practically useless. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of Dartmoor, you know!""All right, I'll tell him; but it's rather rough on him, all the same."The Commandant strolled over to where Lieutenant Hayward was talking to a few friends. As soon as he had gone, Crichton beckoned to his servant."Jackson, have you put the things I told you in my kit-bag?""Yes, sir, and two of everything, sir. Shall I strap the bag on?""Yes, and you are to come with me; so get your helmet, quick."Soon all was bustle and commotion. The crowd of officers and soldiers and few civilians present made a wide semi-circle in the rear of the monoplane."Good luck, old chap!" "Don't lose your way!" "Got your maps?" "Wire us time of arrival!"—and a host of other remarks, mingled with chaff, were drowned in the roar of the propeller as Jim started the engine. He raised his hand and the great, bird-like aeroplane rushed forward and almost at once began to rise.Soon it grew smaller and smaller as the distance increased, and began to curve to West as Jim set his course for Exeter.The roar made by the engine of an aeroplane renders it impossible to hear one's own voice, much less to speak to another; but all military "two-seaters" are equipped with 'phones to enable the pilot and observer to converse with ease.Jim now pulled down the receiver and adjusted it over his helmet. "Look here, Jackson! Do you know why I've taken you instead of Mr. Hayward?""No, sir.""I'm going to trust you with a secret which, if you blab, will get me into a big row.""Very good, sir. I shan't talk, you know that, sir.""Well, I have promised a great friend at home to give him a flight, and I'm going to take him up to-day in your place—only as it is strictly against the Royal Flying Corps regulations to take anyone on a Corps machine, you must play up and not give the show away.""Trust me for that, sir.""My friend knows that he is to take your place—that is why I've put in a second suit of clothes—and he has asked me to give you a fiver.""Very much obliged, I am sure, sir.""All right. That is why I told you to put a suit of your own uniform in my bag. My friend will put on your uniform and will take your place. You will have to be careful not to be seen in Plymouth till he has changed at the hotel. I shall drop you at Exeter and you must go on to Plymouth by train; take two rooms for me at the 'Duke of Cornwall,' which is right against the station, and then hang about the place till I arrive. If anyone questions you—which is unlikely—you must only say that you are my mechanic from Salisbury. But don't you go near Crownhill Barracks till after we have arrived; then you may go to the canteen and 'gas' as much about the flight as you like.""Very good, sir; I quite understand. I'll slip off quietly at Exeter so as not to be noticed."For the next hour the steady hum of the great propeller was the only sound heard by the airmen, but just as Crewkerne had been passed a new note sounded—a steady umph! umph! umph! like the distant throbbing of a drum."Jackson, do you hear that?""Yes, sir—cylinder misfiring?""We shall have to come down. What's that ahead?""Looks like another railway line, sir; and there is a town there, too—I can make out houses with the glasses.""That must be Chard. I shall come down when I see a good field."The monoplane began to drop. Fields and hedges were plainly visible."Just put your glasses on to that big, green patch away to the right.""Racecourse, sir. First-class landing by the looks of it."The aeroplane banked steeply as Jim swung round to the right and commenced to descend. He stopped the engine and the machine dived down steeply, only to be checked as it neared the ground by a sudden rush of the propeller again, which stopped when it had given the necessary momentum. Now the wheels touched the turf as lightly as a bird, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it stopped nearly opposite the grand stand. Already people were running towards the racecourse from every direction, and Jim realised that the chance of his servant getting away unreported would be small."Look here, Jackson, you must go by the South Western to Exeter, then change to the Great Western and book to Millbay station, Plymouth. When I order you to meet me at Exeter, remember that is only a 'blind' for any reporters who may see you go, so you must stick to the story that you are meeting me there with more petrol. Understand?""All right, sir."People began to arrive and questions were showered on Jim, who replied good-humouredly, and warned each newcomer not to come too near as he was about to start the engine again—a warning which was immediately emphasised by the throb of the engine itself, as Jackson tested the ignition."All right, sir."Jim lit a cigarette, and taking a telegraph form from his pocket, wrote out a message to his Commanding Officer and handed it to Jackson."Send this off at once and go on to Exeter by train. Have the petrol ready there for me, and I'll pick you up at the place of which I told you."Jim said this in a voice which could be heard by every one present. Then he climbed into his seat again."Stand back, please!" The crowd scattered, leaving a free run up the course. A minute later the monoplane was speeding away over the tree-tops and was soon lost to sight in the West.CHAPTER XXIII.SUCCESS.Cranmere Pool! The most desolate spot on Dartmoor. Here rise seven rivers—born in the quaking morass, itself the result of the drainage of the giant tors which shut it in on every hand. A lonely spot encircled by the everlasting hills, without a road or cart-track—inaccessible, isolated. In summer visited by tourists who boast of having made the pilgrimage on the hardy little moorland ponies; in winter as solitary and forsaken as the Great Sahara itself.Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau from which the hills slope upwards, and half-way up is the remains of a ruined house—the walls of which are only a few feet high, and are level with the ground in many places.A strange place for a house until one notices the hummocks and depressions in the rock-strewn heather, and then one realises that once in far-off times this was a primitive tin mine.The silence is intense—the hillside, save for the heather, bare and lifeless. Suddenly a clump of heather stirs, and a man's head appears thrust out of the hillside itself—followed by his body—as it emerges from a hole hidden by the heather. He raises a pair of Zeiss glasses and carefully sweeps the country—first the foot hills, then the more distant tors. Then having satisfied himself that he is the sole human being on that wild moorland, he throws himself into the heather—and fills and lights a pipe.Rupert's waiting place had been well chosen. For anyone but a born moorman it would have been impossible. Dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair of decent length, and a decent moustache, it would have been difficult to recognise in him Convict 381! He lay on his back and nervously blew smoke rings into the blue vault above him. Presently he ceased smoking and sat up. A faint humming greeted his ears!He rose to his feet and faced the north; his glasses swept round the skyline east and west—then he took them down and gazed slowly round the visible horizon. Nothing in sight, and yet the hum increased.Now it stopped suddenly. He looked up, and there, right above him, was a monoplane, far up in the blue heavens, circling round and descending in great spiral swoops till he could see the figure of the pilot.With a strangled cry of joy he ran down the steep hillside to the grassy plain, and presently the monoplane swooped down and bounded along the rough turf.Rupert raced after it, and as gradually, almost imperceptibly, it slackened speed, he seized hold of it and used his weight to help bring it to a standstill, Crichton eventually jumping from his seat and doing the same.Then Jim took off his safety helmet and the two men faced one another. Rupert held out his hand. He tried to speak, but he could not trust himself. Jim Crichton understood; he, too, had a queer sensation of choking in his throat.He turned away and commenced to examine the machine, to see that it had not been damaged in alighting—and to give Rupert a chance of recovering himself. The latter was trembling from head to foot. He had been brave enough when he had been hunted by armed men through the fog, and his nerve had not deserted him when he came out from his place of concealment at Post Bridge Hall and begged to be given a chance to fight for his life. And all the time he had been hidden in the semi-darkness of the cellar adjoining Jim Crichton's workroom at the Hall he had felt confident that he would eventually obtain his freedom. But now that the hour had come, now that he stood on the vast moorland beneath the glorious blue sky, no longer wearing the badge of shame, to all intents and purposes free, his nerve failed him and his courage suddenly oozed through his feet.He started at every sound—the call of a curlew, a distant sheep bell, the rattle of a stone beneath his boot. Jim unstrapped a parcel from the front seat of the monoplane and threw it on to the turf."Now then, Dale, you've got to be quick," he said brusquely, as if giving orders to one of his own men. "Undo that suit case. You'll find a uniform; take off the suit you're wearing and get into it. You mustn't waste a moment. I may have been seen descending, but I don't think it's likely from the height I was up."Again Rupert tried to speak, but the words rattled incoherently in his throat. He commenced to change his clothes in a way that would have won the approval of a quick-change music-hall artist. When he had finished he packed up the blue suit of clothes and Jim strapped the case on to the monoplane again. Then he looked at Rupert critically."Yes, you'll do. You had better brush your moustache up a bit—so." He gave a little laugh. "Gad, you would make a very good soldier. Let's see you salute."Rupert cast an anxious eye round the horizon. "You said there wasn't a moment to lose—some one may have seen you descend—this means life or death to me! ... and for you, the risk——"Jim stepped forward and laid his hand on Rupert's shoulder. "Come, pull yourself together, man. You'll want all your courage in an hour's time when we land at Plymouth. You haven't forgotten what I've told you? ... I started from Netheravon with my soldier servant, Jackson. Dropped him at Chard, and he went on by rail to Exeter, where I picked him up again—you're Jackson!""Yes, I remember all that," Rupert replied hastily."Now, when we arrive at Plymouth be careful not to speak a word. Yes or no will be quite enough. Go straight to the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, and refuse all invitations to the canteen or mess. You know what to do at the hotel? Now, try that salute again, the first was rotten. It's more important than you think. We mustn't take the slightest risk of failure now."Eventually Crichton was satisfied. They had some little difficulty in starting the engine. Altogether, scarcely half an hour passed since the monoplane alighted before it was once more in the air making great spirals as it climbed steeply into the clouds. Rupert scanned the moorlands surrounding the pool with his glasses. To his relief no human being was in sight. They had not been observed.Jim contrived to keep Cranmere Pool as the centre and avoided even sighting Okehampton Camp, nor was Princetown visible till they sailed swiftly over it—a mere speck thousands of feet below.It seemed only a few moments before the gleam of water and a pall of smoke showed Rupert that Plymouth was just ahead.* * * * *The monoplane began to descend in great spirals, till woods and houses were clearly visible. Jim did not approach the town, but circled round a large down. Now crowds of people could be seen running towards an open green space with a great white cross on it, directly below them.Rupert noticed that many were soldiers. More soldiers poured out of the line of huts to the south. The engine stopped. Now the cross was right ahead, and the ground appeared to Rupert to be rushing towards them. He clutched the supports on each side and realised they were falling at a frightful rate. Suddenly the engines started again—but only for a moment. Before he knew how it happened the monoplane was rushing along the ground with great leaps, till it stopped just beyond the canvas cross. In a moment a cordon of soldiers formed round the monoplane. Jim jumped from his seat and was shaking hands with a group of eager officers.Rupert also climbed down and was instantly surrounded by soldiers, who plied him with questions. Before he could reply Jim pushed through them."Now, Jackson, don't stand gossiping there! Take my suit-case down to the 'Duke of Cornwall' at once. Ask for the rooms I've engaged. I shall want a bath and change immediately.""Yes, sir." And Rupert gave his best military salute."Here, take that safety helmet off and put on your cap," Jim commanded, "or you'll be mobbed outside.... Now, men, don't interfere with him, he will be back in an hour. Just help to wheel the 'plane opposite the polo pavilion."Rupert, bag in hand, hurried to the gate, glad to escape further questions from his supposed comrades.At the gate he met a cavalcade, and had to stand aside to let it pass. Just as he was hurrying down the road again, he heard a horse behind him, and a voice hailed him."Hi! You there! Why don't you salute the General, eh? Here, sergeant, take this man's name and regiment." And the young officer turned his horse and galloped after the General again.Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout, red-faced man in a red tunic with three gold stripes on his arm."Name and regiment?" he snapped.Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps.""What's your number?""Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise."Come on, now—don't you let me 'ave none of your ... nonsense. Out with it!"Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered, after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I'll go quietly with you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first.""I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you're for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the General Officer Commanding the Western District—and don't you forget it, or you'll find yourself in 'clink.' Now, fly off, and don't give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure. But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone.Alone in the darkness again!Ever since his escape from prison he had lived the life of an underground animal. Always in the darkness. And at night, when he had dared sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness still surrounded him and the silence and the mystery of the night.For the best part of a year he had been shut off from human intercourse and converse with his fellow men.Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders with them. He was jostled to and fro; laughter echoed in his ears. The noise of the traffic threatened to deafen him.He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he knew he would have bolted—like a thief.Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned and he found he was not molested, fear left him and was replaced by a tremendous excitement. He began to feel like a child who has run away from home, or a schoolboy who has escaped the vigilance of his masters. The noise of the streets began to have a meaning for him: colour and movement. The motors and tram-cars and the splendid shops.And, overhead, the great blue sky. He was free, really a free man again.At liberty! He mouthed the word lovingly. And he stood still on the pavement and gaped at the men and women who passed to and fro. How easily they took their liberty; how unconscious they seemed of it. They had never known what it was to be imprisoned. They had never known what it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a narrow cell in the everlasting twilight, without even a window through which one might gaze and be reminded that God's in His heaven, all's well with the world.Again he laughed. At that moment a policeman passed him and turning his head looked at him. Rupert was standing just outside a shop. Hardly knowing what he was doing he bolted into it. The next moment he cursed himself for a fool and a coward. A huge glass mirror showed him his reflection. He stared at it fascinated. He looked no more like a convict than he looked like the old Rupert Dale he had once known.An assistant's voice behind the counter asking him what he wanted brought him back to the needs of the moment. By good fortune the shop was a tobacconist's—and Rupert knew he did want something very badly. A smoke. He bought a four-penny cigar, and the chink of money gave him another strange thrill. He spent an unconscionable time in lighting it, but when he ventured into the street again he found to his relief the policeman had gone.And so eventually he reached the hotel safely and sat down at the open window of the private sitting-room reserved for Lieutenant James Crichton.And there an hour or two later Jim found him.The two men shook hands silently. It was difficult to find words. They had both gone through big ordeals. They had both been fighting against pretty stiff odds. Victory seemed assured.But they were not out of danger yet.Jim had a hot bath and changed, then he told Rupert to do the same."You will have to get into mufti," he explained to him. "I've had a kit-bag sent here, and it contains everything you'll want for your journey. You remember all I've told you? Well, I've had to change our plans slightly. You sail to-night on a small boat, about a thousand tons, that's going East. I've booked you as a coffee planter—thanks to working in the fields at Princetown you've got a good tan on your face. Your name is John Cotton—which fits in with the initials on my bag. I thought it out as I was filling my 'baccy pouch——" He laughed. "For heaven's sake, remember—John Cotton! You'll find a book amongst your kit dealing with coffee planting. You'd better study it in case you're tackled on the subject. The captain of the ship's a pal of mine. He's got a box for the theatre to-night, and is bringing a friend. We're going to join him there, and after the show, in the middle of supper, we're all to walk down to the Barbican Steps, where the captain's dinghy will be waiting.... Captain Sparkes is a decent chap, and a sportsman. He knows you're under a cloud, that's all he knows. I would have told him the truth, but I couldn't, for his sake; for if he knew and anything went wrong he would get into no end of a mess. He won't question you. And once you're outside Plymouth Sound you'll know you're safe."Rupert nodded his head. He could not thank Crichton. Mere words would not convey what he felt.Perhaps Jim knew what was passing in his mind, for he laid his hand on his shoulder a moment, giving it a friendly grip."That's all right," he said steadily. "Now, from this moment I want you to blot out the past. You told your sister you were innocent. I didn't believe it at first. I believe it now."Rupert raised his head and looked straight into Jim's face. "Thank God for that.""Forget everything," Jim continued. "Only remember John Cotton, the coffee planter, en route for Singapore."He took out a note-book from his pocket and handed Rupert a wad of notes. "There's a hundred pounds there, half in English, half in dollar notes. When the radium mine booms you'll have more money than you know what to do with. Now then, just before you close the door on the past and lock it, is there anything I can do for you in England?"Rupert walked round to the window and gazed out. Down below the bustle and business of life; the buying and selling, the loving and hating of the streets. Beyond, the shimmer of the blue sea, which for him meant safety. And, above, the dome of the blue sky, which for him meant liberty!He wondered when he would grow accustomed to it."You will take care of Marjorie. Whatever happens, whether you marry her or not, don't let Despard get hold of her.""You need have no fear on that score, old man."There was a short silence. Rupert was still standing with his back to Jim, staring out of the window."There's a letter I'd like to write—to some one; some one very dear to me. I don't know where she is now. But I daresay you could find her. Perhaps you can guess——""You mean Miss Strode?"Rupert nodded. He gave Jim her address and the name of the theatre where she had last played. "I want her to know that I'm well and safe—and—happy. Don't forget to emphasize the fact that I'm happy—because, perhaps it would be safer not to write—if you would see her and give her the message instead.""I'll see her and give her your message. You mustn't write."Again there was a short silence. Rupert took out the bundle of notes Jim had given him and fingered them thoughtfully. "I shan't want all this money. Ruby may be out of an engagement. I wish you would find a way of sending her half the amount you've given me.""You stick to them. I'll see that she wants for nothing. That is the first thing I'll do when I get back. I daren't tell her even that you've escaped out of England, though of course, she'll guess. But I'll give her your message. Is that all?""I think that's all," Rupert replied. He found it very difficult to keep his voice under control. "Tell her—tell her I love her—and am grateful, always grateful."Jim started. He made a movement towards Rupert, his lips framing a question. He checked it, and, turning away, rang the bell."And now for dinner and then the theatre. You had better go into the other room, Cotton, while I give my orders to the waiter, in case he saw you coming in with my bag—he might wonder what sort of game I was playing with my servant."Rupert nodded and crossed the room. "I see you've got your name all right." Jim smiled.As soon as dinner was ordered the two men strolled down to the lounge, and then Rupert remembered to tell Jim the incident of the General he had forgotten to salute, and the scene he had had with the sergeant.Crichton laughed. "By jove, you might have got poor Jackson into a nice mess! But as you were carrying my bag and men are not supposed to salute when they're carrying things, I'll make it all right for you."At eight o'clock they made their way to the theatre and found Captain Sparkes and his friend already occupying one of the boxes.Four hours later they were walking beneath the starlit sky towards the Barbican. The captain was in a rare good humour with himself. They found the dinghy waiting for them at the appointed place. Sparkes and his passenger tumbled in unquestioned. The final farewells were shouted, the oars struck the water. The little boat pulled out and was soon lost to view.Jim Crichton gave a slight sigh of relief, and, turning on his heel, walked back to the hotel. At the bureau he asked for a telegraph form, and, writing out a message, handed it to the porter with instructions that it should be sent off the first thing in the morning.It contained three words. "Flight quite successful," and was addressed to "Marjorie Dale, Blackthorn Farm, Post Bridge."Jim turned in at once. For the first time he realised that he was thoroughly exhausted. But sleep did not come. A dreadful fear seized him lest he had written his message a little previously. Captain Sparkes' boat was not due to sail until daybreak. Rupert would not be really safe until she was out of the Channel.Long before sunrise Jim Crichton was standing at his bedroom window gazing with anxious eyes over Plymouth Sound.A black speck on the blue horizon; a thin line of slowly drifting smoke! His glasses told him that the boat had sailed, and that Rupert Dale was safe.
CHAPTER XX.
PLANS FOR ESCAPE.
Marjorie looked at her lover. He met her gaze fairly. But she saw fear in his eyes—a thing she had never seen there before.
She knew he had never known the meaning of fear until now. Then she looked at her brother. Crossing to his side she told him to stand up.
"Look at me, Rupert. Tell me whether you're innocent or guilty—one moment, before you speak. I know, but I want to hear the truth from your lips."
"It can make no difference." Jim Crichton spoke. "He has been found guilty. He has escaped from prison. He must go back to prison."
Brother and sister were standing close together, facing one another fearlessly now. To Jim listening and watching it seemed a long time before Rupert spoke.
"I am innocent," he said at last.
Marjorie put her arms around him, holding him closely and tightly. "I knew it."
Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. "Who was the guilty person? Do you know that?"
"Yes. I know that."
"Who was it?" Her voice rose triumphantly.
Again there was a long silence. Jim turned his back. He was fighting against the fear which possessed him. He was afraid of himself. Emotions of which he had never before been conscious filled his heart—war against ideals, principles and faiths to which he had been brought up.
"I shall never say who was guilty."
Marjorie gave vent to a little cry: a cry of joy. She took her brother's hands, both of them, and covered them with kisses. Roughly he snatched them away and stood back.
"I've given you my message—though it has come too late. I don't know what Despard has done for you, but don't trust him, Marjorie. Warn father.... When I said just now that I had had no intention of escaping it was true. But now I have escaped I don't mean to go back. If you won't help me, if the man who loves you does his duty and gives me up, then I shall fight for it."
He backed across the room as he spoke, and gazed around as if seeking for some weapon.
Marjorie stepped towards her lover and held out her arms. "Jim!"
He shook his head, and crossing the room unlocked the door.
"Jim! What are you going to do?"
"I must do my duty."
She followed him. "Your duty to the State? But what of me. Yes, I am pleading for myself now. For the love we bear one another."
The door-handle rattled in his hand. He stood with his back towards her. "Marjorie, don't tempt me."
"I'm not tempting you," she replied quietly. "I'm asking you calmly and coldly to save my brother. I know what I'm asking. I know that if you hide him and if he's discovered you will be ruined. I realise the awful responsibility I'm putting on you. I'm doing a terrible thing, but I'm doing it with my eyes open, conscious of the love I bear you.... Still, I ask it. Save him."
Beads of perspiration stood on Rupert's forehead. He was trembling from head to foot as if with an ague. The muscles of his face worked convulsively.
"Just let me go then. I'll take my chance outside. They'll never know I was here, I'll swear to that. A few hours' more freedom—that's all I want. I might get back home and see my father for a moment.... They won't take me alive. I can't go back to that granite hell at Princetown. Death's easier. I'm not afraid—for I can die fighting ... but to be taken back like a dog on a chain, to be put into a hole where there is neither night nor day, only silence and four narrow walls, and a cup of water and a piece of bread——"
Jim held up his hand. "Silence, Dale. Don't say any more. This rests between Marjorie and me. There is one thing, however, you should know—I am going to marry your sister."
Rupert made a movement forward, then stopped. "I told you just now that I was a coward," he cried fiercely, his voice rising. "I am no longer a man. Prison has done its work quickly.... All I want now is freedom. I don't care how I get it. I was neither a thief nor a liar nor a coward when I was convicted nine months ago, but I am now, and I'll lie, cheat, kill—for freedom. I'm going to get out of this house alive even if they shoot me like a dog outside your garden gate. So now you know."
"Be silent," Jim said again. He turned round and looked at Marjorie. "You have heard. What do you say?"
"Save him. Perhaps I am asking you the greatest thing in the world. If my love is worth the sacrifice—make it."
He took her hands in his then. They were as cold as ice. She scarcely looked beautiful. The agony she was undergoing had distorted her features.
"Wait here. I shall not be long."
He left the room, closing the door behind him. Marjorie stood with her back to it, supporting herself against it. Rupert stared round the room, crossed to the conservatory door and closed it. He pulled the curtain at the window closer. He picked up the decanter of whisky as if to help himself again, but changed his mind and put it down. Twice he tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips.
"Sit down, dear," Marjorie said, striving to regain her normal voice. "You must be very tired."
He nodded his head but remained standing. Jim was absent a long time. Now and then sounds they would not have heard under ordinary circumstances startled the brother and sister waiting in the drawing-room—waiting far apart. Once they had been all in all to one another; now a third person stood between them, and in his hands lay Rupert's life.
At last Rupert spoke. "I can't stand this much longer. Marjorie, open the door and let me go. I'm asking too much. Let me go and take my chance."
She shook her head. "Wait."
At last Jim returned. He left the door open and beckoned to Rupert. "Follow me."
The convict glanced at him. There was no need to question. He crossed the room on tip-toe, holding his breath. His expression was that of a hunted animal, his movements the same.
The door closed and Marjorie was alone. An hour passed, but now she was unconscious of time. She sat on the Chesterfield staring into space. She was only conscious of Jim's presence when she felt his arms around her.
"Father may return any moment," he said. She heard a sob of fear in his voice, it had changed. She did not recognise it as the voice of her lover. "I'm afraid you must go. Before you go I must tell you what I've done and what I hope to do. Listen, dear—and remember."
"I am listening, Jim."
"You know my workroom at the back of the house, just underneath my bedroom? It was built out for me just before I joined the R.F.C. Underneath it is a cellar where I keep a few things stored—plant, bits of machinery, petrol, and so forth. Some of the plant I want for my experiments is there and a small furnace. The entrance to my workroom is always locked and the way to the cellar bolted and padlocked, too. I've hidden him there, in the cellar. Binks, my bull terrier, always sleeps in the workroom. He knows Rupert, remembered him and made friends at once. He would give warning if anyone approached.... I've given Rupert a change of clothes and food—enough of the latter to last him twenty-four hours in case of need. I spend half the day in my workroom always, so—he won't feel lonely. A fortnight or three weeks at least must pass before we can dream of escape. He can change his appearance in that time, too."
He waited a moment. Marjorie said nothing, but he felt her body tremble. He held her tighter.
"I've thought of a way. It seems the only way, but, at the same time, it means the greatest risk. I'll tell you now in case there's not another opportunity. We may want your help. In about three weeks' time I'm doing a special flight—a long distance flight from Netheravon to Plymouth, carrying a passenger. It isn't long enough to attract public attention. As an experiment I am using a new engine and trying a little invention of my own which the Government may take up. A certain amount of secrecy will, therefore, be observed. I shall be free to make whatever arrangements I like, take whatever course I choose, and so forth. My idea, hazy at present, is that Rupert shall be my passenger. If I can pick him up and land him at Plymouth he'll stand a chance, a fairly good one, perhaps. Luckily, he knows every inch of Dartmoor, so do I. A monoplane doesn't attract as much attention as it used to, and if the public doesn't know anything about the flight or the direction I'm taking, I may manage to pass over the wildest part of Dartmoor, Cranmere Pool, for example, come down there unnoticed, and pick up Rupert.... Don't say anything, dear, and now go. If you're asked, don't hesitate to say where you've spent this evening. Hide nothing—except the fact that you've seen your brother. Any distress you may show would be perfectly natural. Blackthorn Farm is sure to be watched day and night. You and your father will be watched and followed, probably, but that needn't prevent your coming up here if you want to see me. I won't announce our engagement until Rupert is safe, in case it arouses suspicion." He led her to the door. "Good-night, dear. God bless you."
"God bless you," she stammered. "It is mean to ask now, but tell me one thing more before I go. You don't hate me? I've asked the impossible, and you have done it—you won't hate me when you realise what you've done?"
He forced her eyes to meet his and he smiled bravely. "I realised what I was doing before I did it, dear. It's a big thing. It's like war. That's all now. I love you better than——"
The sentence was unfinished. He kissed her lips, and opening the door led her through the hall out into the garden. There he wished her good-night again, loudly, in a cheery tone of voice, and watched her until she was out of sight.
The fog had quite disappeared. The million eyes of the night shone from a cloudless sky. An owl hooted from a wood on the right. Down in the valley the East Dart sang its way to the sea.
Jim Crichton looked up at the sky. And presently he smiled. It was good to be a soldier and to fight. It was better to be a man, and to love.
CHAPTER XXI.
READY FOR FLIGHT.
Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert's report that radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too excited—even though still sceptical—over this discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts.
No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.
Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large. The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was reported—but 381 was not found.
The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being captured was almost without precedent.
At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught.
"He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I came across him now I'm not sure I'd give him up."
The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his would-be captors for many weeks.
When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of country had been searched and no stone left unturned—indeed, there was not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination—then the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at least got out of Devonshire.
The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.
Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.
Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case.
Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim's workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her sake ceased to worry her.
She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool, deliberate way in which she played it.
The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before Rupert's escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now, she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her—suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at watch—and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps towards the Hall.
She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert's escape, when he had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face told her all was well.
There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done. She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility. Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal.
She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom; doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them. Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.
No risk could be too great to save her brother. She knew a chance would never occur again. And if he were caught and sent back until he had served his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer be a man but really and truly a criminal—something distorted, hideous, unnatural. A human being at war with humanity.
It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim Crichton presented himself at the farm to say good-bye before going back to Netheravon to join his corps. Rupert's escape had never been spoken of in the farmhouse. Dale had forbidden his name to be mentioned, and Marjorie sometimes wondered if her father had lost all feeling for his only son. She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his hiding-place he would instantly inform the police and give him up.
"I suppose when we meet again you will be millionaires," Crichton said cheerily. "I see a prospectus is being issued next week of The Blackthorn Development Company. I shall apply for a few shares—just for luck."
"I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard answered. "The Company will be subscribed two or three times over. You go back to Netheravon to-morrow?"
Jim nodded.
"Alone?"
There was a moment's silence. Marjorie caught her breath. There seemed to be a challenge in Despard's voice.
"Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I can't take Marjorie with me—yet. Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall fly off together, man and wife."
Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room. "Perhaps," he murmured under his breath.
Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man held his hand a few moments longer than was necessary.
"It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the promise you gave Marjorie; but if you insist on making her your wife, you'll break your father's heart, Mr. Crichton."
"I hope not. I hope he'll come to see things my way. But if I had to make a choice, Mr. Dale, I'd rather break his than hers."
Dale sighed and nodded his head. "I suppose youth must be served," he whispered. "Perhaps it's just that the old should suffer. My boy has broken my heart—that's why I feel for your father."
"You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?" Jim said.
"Of course I am. Why, he confessed it!"
Jim turned away. "Perhaps one day his innocence may be proved, Mr. Dale. Oh, I don't want to raise false hopes in your breast. But I'm beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent of the crime of which he was convicted. While there's life there's hope, remember."
He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far as Post Bridge with me, will you? We will say good-bye at the place where we first confessed our love."
Once they were alone it was not of love they spoke. They walked side by side, and now and then Marjorie laughed. If anyone had overheard, if anyone had been watching them, they would never have guessed of what these two lovers were talking.
Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape. He outlined them in detail to Marjorie. Her help would be wanted; and her task, he said, would perhaps be the most difficult task.
On Monday evening she would receive a telegram from him telling her of the flight he was going to make from Netheravon to Plymouth. On receipt of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall, ostensibly at a request the telegram would contain, to show the message to Jim's father. But she would find Sir Reginald out. Jim knew he would be at Moretonhampstead on business. She was to wait for him, and Jim gave her the keys of his workroom and cellar. Rupert already had duplicates. The telegram would contain certain code words, of which Jim gave her the translation. She was to find some way of giving her brother the message they contained—the exact hour he was to leave his hiding-place and make his way across Dartmoor to a certain spot already decided on.
"If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said. "But as far as is humanly possible he can't fail. No one would recognise in the smart, soldierly-looking young fellow the late Convict 381. If he gets safely away I shall send you a wire from Plymouth—just two words: 'Flight successful,' that's all. There's only one man I fear: the man who would like to be my rival—Despard. Once or twice in the evening lately I've seen him hanging around The Hall. It's impossible he could suspect the plans we've formed. I don't believe for an instant he knows where Rupert's hiding. If he did, he'd speak, and give him up, or only keep silence on condition that you——"
Marjorie stopped him. "You needn't fear, Jim. He suspects something, I know. On Monday night, after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make it my business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I know that Rupert's safely away. I can keep him—I'm a woman."
They reached the bridge, and stood for a few minutes gazing down into the foaming waters. Presently Jim held out his hand:
"Au revoir," he said quietly. And he lowered his voice for a moment. "Next time we meet I hope I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket."
"Au revoir, my lover," she whispered. "Remember, whatever happens, I'm yours and only yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."
He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding cheerily, he strode away. She watched him out of sight. He was risking his life, his honour, his reputation, for her sake. If he failed, she knew she would never see him again.
CHAPTER XXII.
JIM STARTS OFF.
The great plain stretched away in the sunlight, broken only by the silver line of the little Avon river and the Downs—like giant molehills—to the north.
It was early morning, but all was activity and bustle at Netheravon.
The great rows of "hangars" gleaming in the bright sunshine were already open, and groups of men—mechanics and cleaners—were busy on the aeroplanes they contained.
A group of officers of the Royal Flying Corps was gathered around a monoplane that had been run outside, and was being tuned up by a number of mechanics.
The two or three civilians with note-books in their hands were evidently pressmen. Something unusual was afoot, for half a dozen horsemen had just cantered into the aerodrome and, dismounting, approached the little crowd round the monoplane.
Suddenly it opened out and the group of officers saluted the smart, iron-featured, white-haired veteran who approached with a slight limp, his beribboned coat eloquent of hard service to the wealthy citizens of a thankless nation who greedily devour the spoils that they are too lazy in lending a hand in obtaining.
"Good-morning, gentlemen. Is Lieutenant Crichton here?"
Jim stepped forward and saluted. He was in service dress, with a safety helmet in place of the usual forage cap.
"Well, I hope the weather is satisfactory, Crichton?" the Chief said.
"Yes, sir, thank you; it is a perfect day for a flight."
The General then asked several technical questions about the monoplane. "You are taking a passenger with you, are you not?"
"Yes, sir."
The General turned away, and Crichton saluted. Quite a number of people were arriving from every direction, and it had evidently become generally known that a special flight was about to be attempted.
Meanwhile the monoplane was ready. Jim climbed into his seat and started the engine. In a few moments he gave the signal to let go, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it gracefully rose in the air and was soon far over the plain. Suddenly it dipped and began to descend.
"By Jove, he's coming down. Something wrong—look! He's hit the ground—see the dust?" And similar exclamations rose from the crowd.
"Take my car, Johnson, and see what's wrong, will you?" said the Flight Commander—and in a moment the car was speeding across the plain.
"Look! Look!" shouted some one. "See the dust he's making!" In another moment the monoplane was seen in the air.
"By Jove, he's up again. Splendid! That's the first time this machine has left the ground single-handed, I'll bet. He's coming back."
In a minute or two the aeroplane began to descend. It brought up nearly on the spot it had started from.
Jim clambered down, and to the volley of questions from his brother officers merely explained that he had dropped his note-book, and had descended to pick it up.
"Look here, Major," Jim said to the Commandant. "I want to take my servant, Jackson, instead of young Hayward, but I don't like to tell him myself. Will you break it to him gently?"
"Good lord, Crichton, why on earth did you not say so before? Why do you prefer Jackson?"
"I shall have a much better chance with Jackson if I have to descend with engine trouble, because he's a trained mechanic, as you know, while young Hayward would be practically useless. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of Dartmoor, you know!"
"All right, I'll tell him; but it's rather rough on him, all the same."
The Commandant strolled over to where Lieutenant Hayward was talking to a few friends. As soon as he had gone, Crichton beckoned to his servant.
"Jackson, have you put the things I told you in my kit-bag?"
"Yes, sir, and two of everything, sir. Shall I strap the bag on?"
"Yes, and you are to come with me; so get your helmet, quick."
Soon all was bustle and commotion. The crowd of officers and soldiers and few civilians present made a wide semi-circle in the rear of the monoplane.
"Good luck, old chap!" "Don't lose your way!" "Got your maps?" "Wire us time of arrival!"—and a host of other remarks, mingled with chaff, were drowned in the roar of the propeller as Jim started the engine. He raised his hand and the great, bird-like aeroplane rushed forward and almost at once began to rise.
Soon it grew smaller and smaller as the distance increased, and began to curve to West as Jim set his course for Exeter.
The roar made by the engine of an aeroplane renders it impossible to hear one's own voice, much less to speak to another; but all military "two-seaters" are equipped with 'phones to enable the pilot and observer to converse with ease.
Jim now pulled down the receiver and adjusted it over his helmet. "Look here, Jackson! Do you know why I've taken you instead of Mr. Hayward?"
"No, sir."
"I'm going to trust you with a secret which, if you blab, will get me into a big row."
"Very good, sir. I shan't talk, you know that, sir."
"Well, I have promised a great friend at home to give him a flight, and I'm going to take him up to-day in your place—only as it is strictly against the Royal Flying Corps regulations to take anyone on a Corps machine, you must play up and not give the show away."
"Trust me for that, sir."
"My friend knows that he is to take your place—that is why I've put in a second suit of clothes—and he has asked me to give you a fiver."
"Very much obliged, I am sure, sir."
"All right. That is why I told you to put a suit of your own uniform in my bag. My friend will put on your uniform and will take your place. You will have to be careful not to be seen in Plymouth till he has changed at the hotel. I shall drop you at Exeter and you must go on to Plymouth by train; take two rooms for me at the 'Duke of Cornwall,' which is right against the station, and then hang about the place till I arrive. If anyone questions you—which is unlikely—you must only say that you are my mechanic from Salisbury. But don't you go near Crownhill Barracks till after we have arrived; then you may go to the canteen and 'gas' as much about the flight as you like."
"Very good, sir; I quite understand. I'll slip off quietly at Exeter so as not to be noticed."
For the next hour the steady hum of the great propeller was the only sound heard by the airmen, but just as Crewkerne had been passed a new note sounded—a steady umph! umph! umph! like the distant throbbing of a drum.
"Jackson, do you hear that?"
"Yes, sir—cylinder misfiring?"
"We shall have to come down. What's that ahead?"
"Looks like another railway line, sir; and there is a town there, too—I can make out houses with the glasses."
"That must be Chard. I shall come down when I see a good field."
The monoplane began to drop. Fields and hedges were plainly visible.
"Just put your glasses on to that big, green patch away to the right."
"Racecourse, sir. First-class landing by the looks of it."
The aeroplane banked steeply as Jim swung round to the right and commenced to descend. He stopped the engine and the machine dived down steeply, only to be checked as it neared the ground by a sudden rush of the propeller again, which stopped when it had given the necessary momentum. Now the wheels touched the turf as lightly as a bird, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it stopped nearly opposite the grand stand. Already people were running towards the racecourse from every direction, and Jim realised that the chance of his servant getting away unreported would be small.
"Look here, Jackson, you must go by the South Western to Exeter, then change to the Great Western and book to Millbay station, Plymouth. When I order you to meet me at Exeter, remember that is only a 'blind' for any reporters who may see you go, so you must stick to the story that you are meeting me there with more petrol. Understand?"
"All right, sir."
People began to arrive and questions were showered on Jim, who replied good-humouredly, and warned each newcomer not to come too near as he was about to start the engine again—a warning which was immediately emphasised by the throb of the engine itself, as Jackson tested the ignition.
"All right, sir."
Jim lit a cigarette, and taking a telegraph form from his pocket, wrote out a message to his Commanding Officer and handed it to Jackson.
"Send this off at once and go on to Exeter by train. Have the petrol ready there for me, and I'll pick you up at the place of which I told you."
Jim said this in a voice which could be heard by every one present. Then he climbed into his seat again.
"Stand back, please!" The crowd scattered, leaving a free run up the course. A minute later the monoplane was speeding away over the tree-tops and was soon lost to sight in the West.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SUCCESS.
Cranmere Pool! The most desolate spot on Dartmoor. Here rise seven rivers—born in the quaking morass, itself the result of the drainage of the giant tors which shut it in on every hand. A lonely spot encircled by the everlasting hills, without a road or cart-track—inaccessible, isolated. In summer visited by tourists who boast of having made the pilgrimage on the hardy little moorland ponies; in winter as solitary and forsaken as the Great Sahara itself.
Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau from which the hills slope upwards, and half-way up is the remains of a ruined house—the walls of which are only a few feet high, and are level with the ground in many places.
A strange place for a house until one notices the hummocks and depressions in the rock-strewn heather, and then one realises that once in far-off times this was a primitive tin mine.
The silence is intense—the hillside, save for the heather, bare and lifeless. Suddenly a clump of heather stirs, and a man's head appears thrust out of the hillside itself—followed by his body—as it emerges from a hole hidden by the heather. He raises a pair of Zeiss glasses and carefully sweeps the country—first the foot hills, then the more distant tors. Then having satisfied himself that he is the sole human being on that wild moorland, he throws himself into the heather—and fills and lights a pipe.
Rupert's waiting place had been well chosen. For anyone but a born moorman it would have been impossible. Dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair of decent length, and a decent moustache, it would have been difficult to recognise in him Convict 381! He lay on his back and nervously blew smoke rings into the blue vault above him. Presently he ceased smoking and sat up. A faint humming greeted his ears!
He rose to his feet and faced the north; his glasses swept round the skyline east and west—then he took them down and gazed slowly round the visible horizon. Nothing in sight, and yet the hum increased.
Now it stopped suddenly. He looked up, and there, right above him, was a monoplane, far up in the blue heavens, circling round and descending in great spiral swoops till he could see the figure of the pilot.
With a strangled cry of joy he ran down the steep hillside to the grassy plain, and presently the monoplane swooped down and bounded along the rough turf.
Rupert raced after it, and as gradually, almost imperceptibly, it slackened speed, he seized hold of it and used his weight to help bring it to a standstill, Crichton eventually jumping from his seat and doing the same.
Then Jim took off his safety helmet and the two men faced one another. Rupert held out his hand. He tried to speak, but he could not trust himself. Jim Crichton understood; he, too, had a queer sensation of choking in his throat.
He turned away and commenced to examine the machine, to see that it had not been damaged in alighting—and to give Rupert a chance of recovering himself. The latter was trembling from head to foot. He had been brave enough when he had been hunted by armed men through the fog, and his nerve had not deserted him when he came out from his place of concealment at Post Bridge Hall and begged to be given a chance to fight for his life. And all the time he had been hidden in the semi-darkness of the cellar adjoining Jim Crichton's workroom at the Hall he had felt confident that he would eventually obtain his freedom. But now that the hour had come, now that he stood on the vast moorland beneath the glorious blue sky, no longer wearing the badge of shame, to all intents and purposes free, his nerve failed him and his courage suddenly oozed through his feet.
He started at every sound—the call of a curlew, a distant sheep bell, the rattle of a stone beneath his boot. Jim unstrapped a parcel from the front seat of the monoplane and threw it on to the turf.
"Now then, Dale, you've got to be quick," he said brusquely, as if giving orders to one of his own men. "Undo that suit case. You'll find a uniform; take off the suit you're wearing and get into it. You mustn't waste a moment. I may have been seen descending, but I don't think it's likely from the height I was up."
Again Rupert tried to speak, but the words rattled incoherently in his throat. He commenced to change his clothes in a way that would have won the approval of a quick-change music-hall artist. When he had finished he packed up the blue suit of clothes and Jim strapped the case on to the monoplane again. Then he looked at Rupert critically.
"Yes, you'll do. You had better brush your moustache up a bit—so." He gave a little laugh. "Gad, you would make a very good soldier. Let's see you salute."
Rupert cast an anxious eye round the horizon. "You said there wasn't a moment to lose—some one may have seen you descend—this means life or death to me! ... and for you, the risk——"
Jim stepped forward and laid his hand on Rupert's shoulder. "Come, pull yourself together, man. You'll want all your courage in an hour's time when we land at Plymouth. You haven't forgotten what I've told you? ... I started from Netheravon with my soldier servant, Jackson. Dropped him at Chard, and he went on by rail to Exeter, where I picked him up again—you're Jackson!"
"Yes, I remember all that," Rupert replied hastily.
"Now, when we arrive at Plymouth be careful not to speak a word. Yes or no will be quite enough. Go straight to the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, and refuse all invitations to the canteen or mess. You know what to do at the hotel? Now, try that salute again, the first was rotten. It's more important than you think. We mustn't take the slightest risk of failure now."
Eventually Crichton was satisfied. They had some little difficulty in starting the engine. Altogether, scarcely half an hour passed since the monoplane alighted before it was once more in the air making great spirals as it climbed steeply into the clouds. Rupert scanned the moorlands surrounding the pool with his glasses. To his relief no human being was in sight. They had not been observed.
Jim contrived to keep Cranmere Pool as the centre and avoided even sighting Okehampton Camp, nor was Princetown visible till they sailed swiftly over it—a mere speck thousands of feet below.
It seemed only a few moments before the gleam of water and a pall of smoke showed Rupert that Plymouth was just ahead.
* * * * *
The monoplane began to descend in great spirals, till woods and houses were clearly visible. Jim did not approach the town, but circled round a large down. Now crowds of people could be seen running towards an open green space with a great white cross on it, directly below them.
Rupert noticed that many were soldiers. More soldiers poured out of the line of huts to the south. The engine stopped. Now the cross was right ahead, and the ground appeared to Rupert to be rushing towards them. He clutched the supports on each side and realised they were falling at a frightful rate. Suddenly the engines started again—but only for a moment. Before he knew how it happened the monoplane was rushing along the ground with great leaps, till it stopped just beyond the canvas cross. In a moment a cordon of soldiers formed round the monoplane. Jim jumped from his seat and was shaking hands with a group of eager officers.
Rupert also climbed down and was instantly surrounded by soldiers, who plied him with questions. Before he could reply Jim pushed through them.
"Now, Jackson, don't stand gossiping there! Take my suit-case down to the 'Duke of Cornwall' at once. Ask for the rooms I've engaged. I shall want a bath and change immediately."
"Yes, sir." And Rupert gave his best military salute.
"Here, take that safety helmet off and put on your cap," Jim commanded, "or you'll be mobbed outside.... Now, men, don't interfere with him, he will be back in an hour. Just help to wheel the 'plane opposite the polo pavilion."
Rupert, bag in hand, hurried to the gate, glad to escape further questions from his supposed comrades.
At the gate he met a cavalcade, and had to stand aside to let it pass. Just as he was hurrying down the road again, he heard a horse behind him, and a voice hailed him.
"Hi! You there! Why don't you salute the General, eh? Here, sergeant, take this man's name and regiment." And the young officer turned his horse and galloped after the General again.
Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout, red-faced man in a red tunic with three gold stripes on his arm.
"Name and regiment?" he snapped.
Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps."
"What's your number?"
"Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise.
"Come on, now—don't you let me 'ave none of your ... nonsense. Out with it!"
Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered, after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I'll go quietly with you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first."
"I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you're for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the General Officer Commanding the Western District—and don't you forget it, or you'll find yourself in 'clink.' Now, fly off, and don't give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."
Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure. But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone.
Alone in the darkness again!
Ever since his escape from prison he had lived the life of an underground animal. Always in the darkness. And at night, when he had dared sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness still surrounded him and the silence and the mystery of the night.
For the best part of a year he had been shut off from human intercourse and converse with his fellow men.
Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders with them. He was jostled to and fro; laughter echoed in his ears. The noise of the traffic threatened to deafen him.
He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he knew he would have bolted—like a thief.
Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned and he found he was not molested, fear left him and was replaced by a tremendous excitement. He began to feel like a child who has run away from home, or a schoolboy who has escaped the vigilance of his masters. The noise of the streets began to have a meaning for him: colour and movement. The motors and tram-cars and the splendid shops.
And, overhead, the great blue sky. He was free, really a free man again.
At liberty! He mouthed the word lovingly. And he stood still on the pavement and gaped at the men and women who passed to and fro. How easily they took their liberty; how unconscious they seemed of it. They had never known what it was to be imprisoned. They had never known what it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a narrow cell in the everlasting twilight, without even a window through which one might gaze and be reminded that God's in His heaven, all's well with the world.
Again he laughed. At that moment a policeman passed him and turning his head looked at him. Rupert was standing just outside a shop. Hardly knowing what he was doing he bolted into it. The next moment he cursed himself for a fool and a coward. A huge glass mirror showed him his reflection. He stared at it fascinated. He looked no more like a convict than he looked like the old Rupert Dale he had once known.
An assistant's voice behind the counter asking him what he wanted brought him back to the needs of the moment. By good fortune the shop was a tobacconist's—and Rupert knew he did want something very badly. A smoke. He bought a four-penny cigar, and the chink of money gave him another strange thrill. He spent an unconscionable time in lighting it, but when he ventured into the street again he found to his relief the policeman had gone.
And so eventually he reached the hotel safely and sat down at the open window of the private sitting-room reserved for Lieutenant James Crichton.
And there an hour or two later Jim found him.
The two men shook hands silently. It was difficult to find words. They had both gone through big ordeals. They had both been fighting against pretty stiff odds. Victory seemed assured.
But they were not out of danger yet.
Jim had a hot bath and changed, then he told Rupert to do the same.
"You will have to get into mufti," he explained to him. "I've had a kit-bag sent here, and it contains everything you'll want for your journey. You remember all I've told you? Well, I've had to change our plans slightly. You sail to-night on a small boat, about a thousand tons, that's going East. I've booked you as a coffee planter—thanks to working in the fields at Princetown you've got a good tan on your face. Your name is John Cotton—which fits in with the initials on my bag. I thought it out as I was filling my 'baccy pouch——" He laughed. "For heaven's sake, remember—John Cotton! You'll find a book amongst your kit dealing with coffee planting. You'd better study it in case you're tackled on the subject. The captain of the ship's a pal of mine. He's got a box for the theatre to-night, and is bringing a friend. We're going to join him there, and after the show, in the middle of supper, we're all to walk down to the Barbican Steps, where the captain's dinghy will be waiting.... Captain Sparkes is a decent chap, and a sportsman. He knows you're under a cloud, that's all he knows. I would have told him the truth, but I couldn't, for his sake; for if he knew and anything went wrong he would get into no end of a mess. He won't question you. And once you're outside Plymouth Sound you'll know you're safe."
Rupert nodded his head. He could not thank Crichton. Mere words would not convey what he felt.
Perhaps Jim knew what was passing in his mind, for he laid his hand on his shoulder a moment, giving it a friendly grip.
"That's all right," he said steadily. "Now, from this moment I want you to blot out the past. You told your sister you were innocent. I didn't believe it at first. I believe it now."
Rupert raised his head and looked straight into Jim's face. "Thank God for that."
"Forget everything," Jim continued. "Only remember John Cotton, the coffee planter, en route for Singapore."
He took out a note-book from his pocket and handed Rupert a wad of notes. "There's a hundred pounds there, half in English, half in dollar notes. When the radium mine booms you'll have more money than you know what to do with. Now then, just before you close the door on the past and lock it, is there anything I can do for you in England?"
Rupert walked round to the window and gazed out. Down below the bustle and business of life; the buying and selling, the loving and hating of the streets. Beyond, the shimmer of the blue sea, which for him meant safety. And, above, the dome of the blue sky, which for him meant liberty!
He wondered when he would grow accustomed to it.
"You will take care of Marjorie. Whatever happens, whether you marry her or not, don't let Despard get hold of her."
"You need have no fear on that score, old man."
There was a short silence. Rupert was still standing with his back to Jim, staring out of the window.
"There's a letter I'd like to write—to some one; some one very dear to me. I don't know where she is now. But I daresay you could find her. Perhaps you can guess——"
"You mean Miss Strode?"
Rupert nodded. He gave Jim her address and the name of the theatre where she had last played. "I want her to know that I'm well and safe—and—happy. Don't forget to emphasize the fact that I'm happy—because, perhaps it would be safer not to write—if you would see her and give her the message instead."
"I'll see her and give her your message. You mustn't write."
Again there was a short silence. Rupert took out the bundle of notes Jim had given him and fingered them thoughtfully. "I shan't want all this money. Ruby may be out of an engagement. I wish you would find a way of sending her half the amount you've given me."
"You stick to them. I'll see that she wants for nothing. That is the first thing I'll do when I get back. I daren't tell her even that you've escaped out of England, though of course, she'll guess. But I'll give her your message. Is that all?"
"I think that's all," Rupert replied. He found it very difficult to keep his voice under control. "Tell her—tell her I love her—and am grateful, always grateful."
Jim started. He made a movement towards Rupert, his lips framing a question. He checked it, and, turning away, rang the bell.
"And now for dinner and then the theatre. You had better go into the other room, Cotton, while I give my orders to the waiter, in case he saw you coming in with my bag—he might wonder what sort of game I was playing with my servant."
Rupert nodded and crossed the room. "I see you've got your name all right." Jim smiled.
As soon as dinner was ordered the two men strolled down to the lounge, and then Rupert remembered to tell Jim the incident of the General he had forgotten to salute, and the scene he had had with the sergeant.
Crichton laughed. "By jove, you might have got poor Jackson into a nice mess! But as you were carrying my bag and men are not supposed to salute when they're carrying things, I'll make it all right for you."
At eight o'clock they made their way to the theatre and found Captain Sparkes and his friend already occupying one of the boxes.
Four hours later they were walking beneath the starlit sky towards the Barbican. The captain was in a rare good humour with himself. They found the dinghy waiting for them at the appointed place. Sparkes and his passenger tumbled in unquestioned. The final farewells were shouted, the oars struck the water. The little boat pulled out and was soon lost to view.
Jim Crichton gave a slight sigh of relief, and, turning on his heel, walked back to the hotel. At the bureau he asked for a telegraph form, and, writing out a message, handed it to the porter with instructions that it should be sent off the first thing in the morning.
It contained three words. "Flight quite successful," and was addressed to "Marjorie Dale, Blackthorn Farm, Post Bridge."
Jim turned in at once. For the first time he realised that he was thoroughly exhausted. But sleep did not come. A dreadful fear seized him lest he had written his message a little previously. Captain Sparkes' boat was not due to sail until daybreak. Rupert would not be really safe until she was out of the Channel.
Long before sunrise Jim Crichton was standing at his bedroom window gazing with anxious eyes over Plymouth Sound.
A black speck on the blue horizon; a thin line of slowly drifting smoke! His glasses told him that the boat had sailed, and that Rupert Dale was safe.