"Just so," cut in Mr. Dashwood. "See here, when are you going back to town?"
"By the half-past five train."
"Are you in a hurry to get back?"
"Faith, and I am. I've done my business here, and I've more business to do in town."
"Look here," said Bobby. "I've been thinking you're just the man who might help me. I want to play this fellow French a trick."
"Sure," said the other, "our minds are jumpin'. A trick? Why, that's the game I'm after myself."
"I was thinking," said Bobby, "of rotting him by sending him a telegram from town to tell him to come up at once, as some relation was ill. The only thing is I don't know if he has any relations in town."
"That's no use," said Giveen. "You leave me to play him a trick. See here."
"Yes?"
"The chap's rotten with debt."
"Debt! Why, I thought he was a rich man."
"Rich! He's as poor as Brian O'Lynn. And, look here—he's down here in hiding!"
"Hiding?"
"Aye, hiding from the bailiffs."
"Good heavens!" cried Bobby. "Why, everyone here thinks he's a great swell."
"He's run away from Ireland, him and his horses, and done it so cleverly that no one knows where he's gone to; but I've found out. It's the truth I'm telling you. Well, now, see here. He owes a chap in London no end of money; the chap's name is Lewis, and Lewis sent a man to French's house over in Ireland to take possession. Hammering away at the house door, the man was, and it empty. Well, I got an inkling from a letter that Michael French himself and his daughter and his governess and his horses were down here, and here I've come to find out; and here he is, and it's to-morrow morning I'm going to see Lewis, and it's to-morrow night the bailiffs will be in at French's."
"Gloats!" cried Bobby. "Oh, this is too much of a good thing all at once. Why, it will crack French up and ruin him! All the people here will cut him. He'll be done for, utterly done for!"
"He'll get such a twisting he'll never get over it," said Giveen. "It'll mean pretty nigh the workhouse for him and his brat. Cocking her up with a governess! And, see here——"
"Yes?"
"That governess is all me eye!"
Mr. Giveen accompanied this cryptic remark with a wink that spoke volumes of libel and slander, and Mr. Dashwood rose from his seat and executed a double-shuffle on the bar-room floor.
"What are you doing?" asked Giveen.
"Doing? I feel as if I were going to burst! To think of getting even with that man! See here, you must come up to town and dine with me."
"Sure, with the greatest pleasure. But I haven't the honour of knowing your name yet. Me name's Giveen."
"And mine's Smith. Where are you staying in town?"
"I'm staying at Swan's Temperance Hotel, in the Strand."
Mr. Dashwood looked at his watch.
"It wants ten minutes to five. We may as well get to the station. Have another drink?"
"Well, I don't mind if I do," said Mr. Giveen, who worked on a fixed principle of never refusing anything he could get for nothing.
Bobby Dashwood called for more gingerbeer, which his companion consumed. Then they started for the station.
The only plan Mr. Dashwood had in his mind for the moment was to cling to his companion. If the worst came to the worst, he would, at least, have the satisfaction of kicking the traitor into the street out of Lewis' office, where he determined to accompany him. But he felt dimly there was a chance between this and to-morrow morning of doing something to save French.
If Giveen had only been a drinker, the path would have been clearer. The man who gets jolly has always soft spots one can work on. But Mr. Giveen had no soft spots. He was soft all over, with hard spots in him here and there, and the hardest of all these spots was his hatred of French.
Mr. Dashwood, piloting his undesirable companion, led the way to the station, where they arrived ten minutes before the train was due.
He had seven pounds, the remains of the twelve pounds he had won at the Bridge Club, and he thanked fervently the powers above that he had the money about his person. To have left Mr. Giveen while he rushed back to The Martens for the sinews of war would have been a highly dangerous proceeding. He felt intuitively that Giveen was one of those people who, incapable of trust, have no trust in others, and that once this gentleman's suspicions were aroused, the affair would be hopeless.
Above Bobby's intense desire to save French and thwart his enemy was the desire to shine in the eyes of Violet Grimshaw, to execute some stroke of finesse, to trump the ace that Fate had suddenly laid down on the card-table on which French was playing the greatest game of his life.
And he had not a trump-card, to his knowledge.
The train came steaming in, disgorged a few passengers, received some baskets of country produce, and steamed out again, with Mr. Dashwood and his antagonist seated opposite to one another in a third-class smoking carriage.
Dashwood was by no means an "intellectual," yetbefore they reached Victoria the unintellectuality of Mr. Giveen had reduced him from a condition of mild wonder to pure amazement. An animal of the meanest description would have been a far preferable companion to this gentleman from over the water, childish without the charm of childhood, ignorant, and little-minded.
As Mr. Dashwood stepped out of the carriage at Victoria he saw, amid the crowd on the platform, a figure and a face that he knew.
A tall girl with red hair and a good-looking but rather masculine face, dressed in a tailor-made gown of blue serge, and wearing pince-nez—that was the apparition that brought Mr. Dashwood to a pause and caused him for a moment to forget Mr. Giveen.
It was Miss Hitchen, the high-minded girl with the latchkey, the student of eugenics and sociology, the lady who, in a moment of mental aberration, had engaged herself to Mr. Dashwood, and who, after recovering her senses, had disengaged herself, much to Mr. Dashwood's relief. She was evidently looking for some friend expected but not arrived.
For a moment Mr. Dashwood paused. He had never loved Miss Hitchen, but he had always felt a profound respect for her intellect and a grasp of things. In his present quandary, with French's fate literally in his hands, and with no idea how to preserve it, the clever and capable face of Miss Hitchen came as a light to a man in darkness.
They had parted in amity. In fact, the last words Miss Hitchen had said to him were of a nature almostprophetic. "Bobby," she said, "if your irresponsibility ever gets you into any scrape, and I can help you, let me know, for you are just the sort of boy that gets into scrapes that only women can help a man out of."
"Wait for me a moment," said Mr. Dashwood to Mr. Giveen. Then, pushing through the crowd, he touched Miss Hitchen lightly on the arm.
She turned.
"Bobby!"
"I'm so awfully glad to see you—you can't tell. I say, I'm in a scrape—not me, but another man. I can't explain everything at once. Don't think there's anything wrong, but a man's whole fortune is hanging in the balance, and I want you to help to save it. Just look round there. Do you see that fellow in grey tweed, with a face like an—I don't know what?"
"Yes," said Miss Hitchen, gazing at Mr. Giveen. "Is he the man in the scrape?"
"No, he's the scrape. See here—will you drive with us to the Albany, and I'll leave him in there, and we can speak about the thing. He's a gentleman, and all that, but he's slightly mad, and the whole thing is most curious."
"Yes," said Miss Hitchen. "I came here to meet a girl, but she hasn't turned up. If I can help you in any way, I'm willing."
"Well, then, I'll introduce you to him, and I wish you'd study him on the way to the Albany. I can't tell you the importance of all this till we have a moment together alone."
Mr. Dashwood left his companion and made through the crowd towards Mr. Giveen.
"I say," said Mr. Dashwood. "I've just met a lady friend, a most charming girl, and she wants to be introduced to you."
"Sure, with pleasure," replied the lady-killer.
"Well, come along, then."
He led him by the arm towards where the girl was standing, and effected the introduction.
"Now," said he, "as you say you are going in my direction, if the presence of myself and my friend Giveen here will not bore you, may I ask you to take a seat in my cab?"
"Oh, you won't bore me," replied Miss Hitchen, who with a searching glance had taken in the face, form, and bearing of Giveen and who felt for this new type of individual something of the interest a naturalist feels on coming across a new species of insect. "You'll amuse me."
"Faith, we'll try our best," said Mr. Giveen, while Bobby Dashwood went in search of a taxicab. "There's nothing like fun, is there? And, faith, it's fun we've been having to-day, Mr. Smith and I."
"Mr. Smith?" said Miss Hitchen, and then recognising in a flash that the pseudonym was part of some artless plan of Bobby's, "Oh, yes, Mr. Smith. You mean my friend who has just introduced us. And what have you been doing? I mean, what did your fun consist of?"
"Faith, it mostly consisted of a girl."
"Yes?"
Mr. Giveen tilted his hat and scratched his head. He did not shine as a conversationalist, and as Miss Hitchen watched him, something of disfavour for this humourist with the shifty manner of a self-conscious child stole into her mind.
"Yes?" said Miss Hitchen.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Giveen.
"You were saying something about a girl," said Miss Hitchen.
"Oh, ay, it was a girl down at a place in the country, and, faith, by the same token, she was old enough to be my aunt," said Mr. Giveen. "It was a bazaar."
"Yes?"
"And she was selling tea behind a counter and up I went, and 'What can I serve you with?' says she. 'A cup of tea,' says I, 'and a bun.'"
"How funny! What did she reply?"
"Faith, I forget, but the next she says to me, 'One and sixpence,' she says."
"Yes?"
"One and sixpence!" suddenly burst out Mr. Giveen. "Why, you might have knocked me down with a feather. And I put me hand into me pocket, and 'Here's sixpence for you,' says I, 'and that's tuppence too much; but you can keep the change.' With that she called an old gentleman up with a red face, and then Mr. Smith came and took me by the arm, and out we went."
"And the sixpence?"
"Faith, I've got it still in me pocket."
"How awfully amusing! But look, Mr. Smith hasgot us a cab. Thanks, no, I never take gentlemen's arms; it is quite unnecessary."
They took their seats in the taxi, Miss Hitchen and Mr. Dashwood in the back seat, Mr. Giveen sitting opposite to Miss Hitchen.
"The Albany, Piccadilly end," said Mr. Dashwood to the driver, and they started.
Before they had well cleared the precincts of the station Miss Hitchen was alive to the fact that Mr. Giveen was "making eyes at her"—ogling her. Mr. Dashwood noted the same fact, and with his elbow touched his companion's arm as if to implore her patience. To have stopped the taxicab and kicked Mr. Giveen out of it would have been apples of gold in pictures of silver to Mr. Dashwood, but he controlled himself, contemplating French's possible salvation as a Buddhist controls himself by contemplating Nirvana.
At the Piccadilly end of the Albany the taxicab drew up, and Miss Hitchen, who was on the kerb side, alighted hurriedly. She stood on the pavement waiting, while Mr. Dashwood paid the driver off, and then the three entered the Albany. Mr. Dashwood's rooms were situated half-way up, on the right-hand side, and at the entrance of them he stopped and turned to Mr. Giveen.
"Will you come in and wait for me a few minutes? Miss Hitchen will excuse me if I run in for a moment with you to show you the way. You can sit and wait for me a few minutes while I see Miss Hitchen into a cab. Come, this is the way."
Mr. Giveen held out his hand to the girl. "It'ssorry I am to have seen so little of you," said Mr. Giveen, "but, sure, if we have any luck, we may meet again."
"Yes, I suppose so," replied Miss Hitchen, releasing her hand. "Good evening."
She waited.
In less than a minute and a half Mr. Dashwood reappeared.
"Bobby," said Miss Hitchen, as she turned with him to the Vigo Street entrance, "I have forgiven you many things, but that Thing is too much to be forgiven without a very complete explanation. Do you know that it put its toe on my foot in the cab?"
"Beast!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Can you imagine my fix, tied to it? I feel as if I were going to burst. Now, look here. Here's my situation in a nutshell. I know a man called French, the nicest fellow in the world. He's almost broken; but he has one thing left—a racehorse. The horse is almost sure to win the City and Suburban, and if he does French will make a fortune. Well, French is training the horse down at Crowsnest, in Sussex. French owes a moneylender named Lewis a lot of money, and Lewis doesn't know where French is. If he knew it, he would send down a man to-morrow and collar the horse. Do you see?"
"Yes."
"Giveen is French's cousin."
"Poor Mr. French!"
"And he has a mortal hatred to French. He has been hunting for his address for the last long time,and he has found it. He went down to Crowsnest to-day to make sure. He strayed into a bazaar that was going on there, and I met him. He was acting like a cad, refusing to pay for a cup of tea. Miss Grimshaw, French's governess, pointed him out to me, and told me who he was, and I froze on to him. I said my name was Smith, and I told him I hated French, and he unbosomed himself to me. Well, here's the position now. To-morrow morning he's going down to Lewis, the moneylender, and is going to put Lewis on to French. Now, you see the position I'm in. For Heaven's sake, try to think of what's to be done."
"When is the race?" asked Miss Hitchen.
"On the 15th."
"Well, unless you murder him I don't see that anything is to be done. If the race were to-morrow or next day, you might chloroform him, or lock him up in your rooms, but you can't lock a man up for ten days."
"He ought to be locked up for life," said Bobby. "Idiot! If I could only make the beast tipsy, I might do something with him, but he drinks nothing—only stone gingerbeer."
"Ah!" suddenly said Miss Hitchen, pausing.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Dashwood.
"An idea."
"Yes?"
"Why not sequestrate him?"
"What's that?"
"Hide him away."
"Where on earth could I hide him?"
"Good gracious, Bobby, haven't you any imagination?"
"Not much," replied the unfortunate Bobby. "I was never any good at working out things, and now I'm so addled I can't think."
"Well, now, listen to me. I don't want to be accessory before the act in this business, and I only make suggestions. Tell me, do you not sometimes go duck-shooting?"
"Yes."
"Where do you go?"
"Essex."
"Where in Essex (I know, because you have several times told me, but I want you to fully answer my question)—where in Essex do you go duck shooting?"
"Why, you know very well it's Flatmarsh, down near Canvey Island."
"Where do you stay there?"
"Uncle James' hole of a cottage."
"Is Uncle James' hole of a cottage occupied now?"
"No."
"No one lives near it?"
"Not within six miles."
"Good. Can you drive a motor-car?"
"Should think so!"
"And hire one?"
"Yes; I've got tick at Simpson's. Oh, by Jove! I see what you mean!"
"I'm glad you do; otherwise I would have fancied that your mental sight was defective."
"I see what you mean. But, look here, if I got him down there, how would I feed the beast and keep him hid?"
"Biscuits and tinned meat can be bought, and enough for a fortnight wouldn't cost more than, say, three or four pounds."
"And there's a well there, so we'd have plenty of water," said Mr. Dashwood. "I say, you are a ripper. I'd never have thought of all that."
"Would Simpson, or whoever he is, let you hire a car for a fortnight?"
"'Course he would. I always pay up my bills, though he has to wait sometimes; but I paid him my last bill a month ago."
"Where is his place?"
"Just close here, in Regent-street."
"Now, another thing—can you imagine what it would be to live for nearly a fortnight alone in a cottage with a person like that, acting as his gaoler?"
"Oh, heavens!" said Bobby. "You think everything! No, I can't, but I'll do it to save French."
"Bobby," said Miss Hitchen.
"Yes?"
"Do you know what I have discovered?"
"No."
"That I'm a fool."
"You a fool?"
"Yes. I thought you were only an irresponsible boy, but I find you're a man."
"Thanks, thanks," said Bobby. "Anyhow, I'll try to be."
"You needn't thank me. Now, have you any money?"
"About five pounds."
"Well, I'll lend you another five pounds. No, I won't, but I'll buy the provisions myself. If I left that to you, you'd forget the essentials. Are there plates and things at the cottage?"
"Lots."
"Well, now, like a good boy, go at once to Simpson's, and order the car, and get back before that animal takes it into his head to escape."
"Do you mean I ought to take him to-night?"
"Of course I mean it."
"Will I see you again this evening?"
"No, but you can write and tell me the result. Same address. The provisions for your excursion will be sent to the Albany by special messenger within the hour. And, oh, Bobby!"
"Yes."
"Do be artful. Say you are taking him out to dinner at a country house. Once he's in the car——"
"Once he's in the car," said Bobby, "he'll stick in it, or I'll smash him up. Oh, leave him to me. But I can never thank you enough. What makes you so awfully clever?"
"He squeezed my foot," said Miss Hitchen.
Mr. Giveen, left alone in Mr. Dashwood's chambers, took a comfortable seat in an arm-chair and gazed around him.
He felt that he had fallen on his feet. He had extracted two bottles of ginger-beer, some biscuits, and a drive in a taxicab from his new-found friend. He was going to extract a dinner. He was about to have his revenge on French. All these things combined to cast him into a pleasant and amused state of mind, and he looked with satisfaction at all the evidences of well-being around him.
Then he got up and began a circuit of the room, looking at the prints on the wall, examining his own face in the looking-glass, touching the boxing-gloves and foils. Then he examined the writing-table. Fortunately there were no letters with Mr. Dashwood's name on them, and when he had turned over the books and taken another peep at himself in the glass he resumed his seat, and presently fell into a doze which deepened into slumber.
He had slept like this for some three-quarters of an hour, when he was awakened by the entry of his new friend.
"Well," said Bobby in a cheerful voice. "How are you getting along? Been asleep, hey? Now, look here, I want you to come out to dinner with me."
"Right you are," said Mr. Giveen, rubbing his eyes. "I'm with you—hay yow!—I'm half moidhered withall me travelling. And what's become of Miss What's-her-name?"
"She—oh, we're going to meet her at dinner. She's gone on in her motor-car."
"So she keeps a motor-car, does she?" said Mr. Giveen, rising and pulling down his waistcoat.
"Rather! She keeps two. Why, she has half a million of money of her own. And, look here," said the artful Bobby, "I'm only taking you to dinner with her on one condition."
"And what's that?"
"Well, I'm rather sweet on her myself, do you see?"
"Oh, faith, you may trust me," said Mr. Giveen, in high good spirits. "I'm not a marrying man, or I'd have been snapped up years ago, musha! But oughtn't I to go back to me hotel for a black coat?"
"Oh, you won't want any black coats where we're going to," said Bobby with grim jocularity. "They are most unconventional people. But, maybe, you'd like to wash your hands. This is my bedroom."
He ushered his guest into the bedroom and left him there. When he returned to the sitting-room he found Robert waiting for him with the announcement that some parcels had come.
"Let's see them," said Mr. Dashwood.
Four large brown-paper parcels were on the floor of the landing; they had just arrived from Thompson's, the big Italian warehouse in Regent Street.
"That's right," said Bobby. "I'm taking them down to a place. And, see here, Robert, I may be awaya few days. I've got a car coming; it will be at the Vigo Street entrance in a few minutes. Just keep a lookout for it, and let me know when it arrives."
"Yes, sir. Shall I pack you some things?"
"Yes; shove a few things into a bag—enough for a week—and stow the bag and these parcels in the back of the car when it comes."
Twenty minutes later, to Mr. Dashwood and his companion appeared Robert, with the announcement that the car was in readiness.
Bobby led the way to the Vigo Street entrance, where, drawn up at the kerb, stood a 40-h. p. Daimler car with lamps lit. Bobby looked at this formidable locomotive with an appreciative eye, and the chauffeur sent with it by Simpson getting down, he mounted and took the steering collar. Giveen, innocent of danger as a lamb entering the yard of the butcher, got in and took his seat beside Mr. Dashwood.
"Right!" said Bobby.
He backed into Cork Street, and then, turning again into Vigo Street, passed into Regent Street.
"How far is it, did you say, to Miss Kitchen's?" asked Mr. Giveen.
"I didn't say—but it's not far—at least, with this car. Are you used to motors?"
"No, faith, I've never driven in one before. And are you used to driving them?"
"Oh, pretty well."
"Do you ever have accidents?"
"Accidents! Rather. That's half the fun. The last accident I had the car turned turtle and pinnedthe fellow that was with us under the engine. The petrol spilt on him, and a spark set it on fire."
"Good heavens!" said the horrified Giveen. "Was he burnt?"
"Was who burnt?"
"The chap with the petrol on him."
"Burnt! Why, they gathered up his ashes in a bucket. Didn't you read about it in the papers?"
"No," said Mr. Giveen. "I didn't."
They passed down the Strand. The night was clear and warm for the time of the year, a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Giveen, as he had no overcoat. They passed up Fleet Street, by St. Paul's, and down Bishopsgate Street.
"Is it anywhere near here?" asked Giveen as they passed Whitechapel Church and turned into the old coaching road to Ilford.
"Is what near here?" asked Bobby.
"The place we're going to."
"Oh, it's about sixty or eighty miles."
"Sixty or eighty miles!"
"Yes. That's nothing to a car like this. You just see how I'm going to make her hum. I haven't had a car like this to drive since I came out of that beastly asylum place."
"I beg your pardon?" said Giveen, cold shivers going up his back. "Did you say—did I understand you to say—which asylum place was it, did you say?"
"Don't bother me with questions," replied Mr. Dashwood, "for when people talk to me when I'm driving, I'm sure to do something wrong."
When Miss Grimshaw saw Bobby leading Mr. Giveen to the bazaar entrance she returned to her duties with so distracted a mind that she sold a seven-and-six-penny teacloth to Mrs. Passover, the sanitary inspector's wife, for two and sixpence, and was only conscious of the fact when she was reminded of it by Miss Slimon, the presiding genius of the stall.
On the pretext of a headache, she released herself at five o'clock and made directly for The Martens, where she found Mr. French smoking a cigar and reading a novel, and utterly oblivious of the fact that he had promised to attend the bazaar.
"What's up?" said French, putting his book and reading glasses down and staring at the girl, whose face and manner were eloquent of news.
"He's come."
"Who?"
"Mr. Giveen."
The owner of Garryowen sprang to his feet.
"He's come, has he? Where is he? He's come, has he?"
"Stop!" she said, half frightened with the ferocity of the outraged French. "It mayn't be so bad as you think. Mr. Dashwood is with him, and is going to do what he can. There's no use in violence. Sit down and listen to me, and I'll tell you all about it."
French sat down in the chair from which he had just arisen. The animal fury which the idea of Giveen excited in his mind might have given cause to grave results had the image come within striking distance; and little blame to him, for here was Garryowen trained to a turn. Weeks and months of care and the genius of Moriarty had brought the colt to that point of perfection which leaves nothing to be desired but the racing day. Only a few days separated them from the supreme moment when, if Fate were propitious, the black-and-yellow colours of Drumgool would be carried first past the winning-post. The possibility of winning a small fortune was almost becoming a certainty, and now, to thwart him of his desire and cripple him for life, here came Dick Giveen.
"But what took him into the bazaar?" asked he, when the girl had finished her story.
"Providence, I believe," replied Miss Grimshaw. "Just fancy, if he hadn't come in! He has come down here evidently to make sure that you are here. If he hadn't wandered into the bazaar, he might have found out what he wanted and gone back to London without our knowing, and then the next thing would have been a man in possession."
French rose up and paced the floor several times without speaking, then he broke out:
"I don't see what Dashwood is to do with him. Unless he murders him, he'll never stop him from going to Lewis and blowing the gaff. What's the good of following him? Might as well leave him alone. Better to have it over at once and done with. Well, let themdo their worst, but they'll never get the horse, for as sure as Lewis takes possession I'll shoot him."
"Shoot Mr. Lewis?"
"No, the horse."
He strode out of the room, and by the back entrance to the bungalow found the stableyard.
Moriarty was in the yard, completing a trap of his own invention, a thing simple as sin, fatal as death, and artful as the mind of its maker. Miss Grimshaw had spoken strongly to Mrs. Driscoll about the poaching. Catching rabbits and such things might be excusable, said Miss Grimshaw, but poaching sheep and eggs was indefensible. It was robbery, in fact, and should it come to her ears again she would inform Mr. French. Stoutly denying all knowledge of the fact, Mrs. Driscoll, all the same, listened to the words of the governess and conveyed them to Moriarty.
"Sheep?" said Moriarty, with a wink at his informer. "What sheep does she mane?"
"Faith, I dunno, but she says she saw you and Andy draggin' a sheep into the loose-box be the wan The Cat's in."
"Oh, that ould bell-wether? Sure, it was to keep him from the cowld we put him there. And was it our fault if he committed suicide and killed himself and skinned himself and then hung himself up in quarthers?"
All the same, from that day he paid no more attention to the comfort of the sheep of the neighbourhood, confining himself to smaller game.
"Moriarty," said Mr. French, "Mr. Giveen hasfound out where we are. He's been down here to-day and it's all up with us."
"Faith, sorr," said Moriarty, "and I'm not surprised. The only wonder to me is he didn't find us out before."
"Well, he's found us out now, anyhow, and be hanged to him! There's only one thing. Mr. Dashwood has got hold of him, and is sticking to him. Not that I expect he'll do much good."
Moriarty, who had put his trap down on the window-ledge of the kitchen, pursed his lips and stood with one hand caressing his foxy chin.
"And where has Mr. Dashwood got him, sorr?" asked he after a moment's silence.
"I don't know."
"Be any chance, sorr, d'you think he's left the place yet. For if he hasn't, and we could speak him fair, and get him up here——"
"Yes?"
"Well, sorr, there's a loose-box beside the wan The Cat's in."
"You mean we might lock him up there?"
"Yes, sorr."
"He'd never come, and if he did, he'd shout the place down."
"Faith, he'd be silent enough, sorr, wid a rope gag in him."
"We couldn't keep him ten days, and he'd have a tearing action against us—not that I'd care about that. See here, Moriarty."
"Yes, sorr."
"Down with you to the village and station, and if by any chance you see him with Mr. Dashwood—well, b'gad, I'll do it. Get him up here; tell him I want to see him. We may as well try."
"Yes, sorr."
Moriarty went into the stables and slipped on his jacket. An hour later he returned from the village with the news that Mr. Dashwood and the strange gentleman had departed for London by the five o'clock train.
Early next morning, with the letters, arrived the telegram that Mr. Dashwood had despatched the night before.
"Giveen safe."
Mr. French, having read it, put on his dressing-gown, and, crossing over to the door of Miss Grimshaw's room, knocked and pushed the envelope under the door.
"Read that," shouted Mr. French.
"Good!" came the girl's voice when she had read it. "I knew he'd do something. Oh, what a relief!"
At breakfast, with the open telegram on the table, they discussed it.
"It was handed in at Regent Street last night at eight o'clock," said Miss Grimshaw. "What, I wonder, can he have done to him, or how can he have got round him?"
"I don't know what he's done to him," said her companion, "but I know one thing, he'll never get round him, and if he thinks he's talked him over he'll find he's made a mistake."
"Well," said the girl, "whatever has happened has happened. We have done our best, and if we are beaten, it won't be our faults. And there is some satisfaction in that."
The day passed, bringing no news from Mr. Dashwood. The next day also passed without news; but by the early post of the third day arrived a letter.
The envelope was shabby and dirty, and the address was written in pencil. Mr. French tore the thing open, and read:
"Dear French,—I've bottled him. I'm scribbling this with pencil as I have got no ink, and I don't know how I will post it. Anyhow, I'm writing it on the chance of finding some means of doing so. I got Giveen up to my rooms in town, and when I had him there I didn't in the least know what to do with him. The beast hates you. I got it all out of him by pretending you were an enemy of mine."He told me straight out that he was going to set Lewis on you, and, upon my soul, there were moments on the journey up to town when I could have flung him out of the railway carriage. Anyhow, when I got him to my rooms, a brilliant idea occurred to a friend of mine whom I consulted. I hired a motor-car, bought some provisions, got Giveen into the car, and motored him down here to a cottage which belongs to an uncle of mine, and which he used for duck-shooting."It's the most God-forsaken place in the world, on the Essex coast; not a soul within miles, only sea-gulls. Of course, Giveen bucked coming down, but only mildly.A happy thought occurred to me, and I pretended to be slightly balmy. I told him I was the King of Siam—that quieted him. He's dead certain he's in the grip of a lunatic, and asks no questions. I make him do the cooking, such as it is, and the washing up."I never let him out of my sight for a moment, and I sleep at night with my bed drawn across the door. The whole thing is like what you'd read of in a book; but it's too awful for words. He can talk about nothing, and we are living on tinned meat and biscuits, and now my tobacco is giving out. I'd ask you to send me some, only I daren't, for if the postman came here, Giveen would be sure to make a bid for freedom."Be sure I will stick to him, like grim death, and give my kind regards to all at The Martens."
"Dear French,—I've bottled him. I'm scribbling this with pencil as I have got no ink, and I don't know how I will post it. Anyhow, I'm writing it on the chance of finding some means of doing so. I got Giveen up to my rooms in town, and when I had him there I didn't in the least know what to do with him. The beast hates you. I got it all out of him by pretending you were an enemy of mine.
"He told me straight out that he was going to set Lewis on you, and, upon my soul, there were moments on the journey up to town when I could have flung him out of the railway carriage. Anyhow, when I got him to my rooms, a brilliant idea occurred to a friend of mine whom I consulted. I hired a motor-car, bought some provisions, got Giveen into the car, and motored him down here to a cottage which belongs to an uncle of mine, and which he used for duck-shooting.
"It's the most God-forsaken place in the world, on the Essex coast; not a soul within miles, only sea-gulls. Of course, Giveen bucked coming down, but only mildly.A happy thought occurred to me, and I pretended to be slightly balmy. I told him I was the King of Siam—that quieted him. He's dead certain he's in the grip of a lunatic, and asks no questions. I make him do the cooking, such as it is, and the washing up.
"I never let him out of my sight for a moment, and I sleep at night with my bed drawn across the door. The whole thing is like what you'd read of in a book; but it's too awful for words. He can talk about nothing, and we are living on tinned meat and biscuits, and now my tobacco is giving out. I'd ask you to send me some, only I daren't, for if the postman came here, Giveen would be sure to make a bid for freedom.
"Be sure I will stick to him, like grim death, and give my kind regards to all at The Martens."
French read this important despatch to Miss Grimshaw as they sat at breakfast, and the girl listened with sparkling eyes.
"I always hated motor-cars," said she, when he had finished. "But I'll never hear a word against them again. Wasn't it clever of him? And the cleverest thing in the whole business is the King of Siam part, for if there's any bother afterwards, he can put the whole affair down to a practical joke. There are only five days now to the 13th. You are moving the horse to Major Lawson's stables at Epsom on the 13th, aren't you?"
"I am," said French. "I had a letter from him only yesterday, asking after the colt. By George, but I believe we'll pull the thing through, after all!"
He rose from the table in high excitement, went tothe window, and stood, jingling the keys in his pocket and gazing at the view. It seemed to him that at last fortune was beginning to make a way for him. A few days only separated him from his goal. If Bobby Dashwood could only keep Giveen "bottled" till the 13th, or even the 12th, all would be well. Could he do this? Time alone could answer that question.
It will be remembered that the night of the 5th of April was the date of the kidnapping of Mr. Giveen. Early in the morning of the 6th Mr. Dashwood awoke from his slumbers with a start, looked around him, and remembered.
The cottage contained only two bedrooms and a living-room. He had taken a bed the night before from one of the bedrooms and dragged it in front of the living-room door, which was also the hall door. Here he had slept, literally making a barrier of his body to the escape of Giveen.
His first thought was of his prisoner, but he was reassured as to his safety by loud snores coming from the bedroom where he had deposited him the night before. The morning reflections of Mr. Dashwood, as he lay watching the mournful dawn breaking through the diamond-paned window, were not of the most cheerful description.
In seizing the body of Mr. Giveen and forcibly deporting it from London to Essex, he had broken the law. The fact that Giveen was an enemy of French and about to do him a cruel injury would, Mr. Dashwood felt, weigh very little with a jury should the said Giveen take an action against him for wrongful imprisonment; and he felt distinctly that Giveen,despite all his softness, was just the man to take such a course.
The great craft of Giveen was fully demonstrated by the way in which he had acted on the night before. Believing himself in the power of a lunatic, he had adapted himself to the situation, feigning unconcern as a beetle feigns death. Besides gloomy forebodings as to the ultimate issue of his illegal proceedings, Mr. Dashwood had to face the immediate prospect of Giveen's close companionship for ten days or so. But, as a set-off to these undesirabilities, he had the pleasant vision of French liberated from his difficulties, Garryowen passing the winning-post with a beaten favourite behind him, and last, but not least, Violet Grimshaw's face when he told her all.
Enlivened by the thought of this, he sprang out of bed, pulled the bed away from the door, and opened it. The bleak morning had broken fully now upon the marshlands and the sea. A cold wind was blowing from the southeast, bending the wire grass and bringing with it the chilly sound of small waves breaking on the shore. Electric white gulls were circling and crying by the distant sea-edge, and the marble-grey clouds were running rapidly overhead.
He shut the door on this dismal prospect, and turned his attention to the fireplace.
He remembered that the last time he was here there was some coal and firewood in the little outhouse at the corner adjoining the shed under whose shelter he had placed the car. He went out now, and, opening the outhouse door, found several hundred-weight ofcoal stacked in a corner of the shed and a dozen or so bundles of firewood by the coal. An old basket stood by the coal, and filling this with fuel and sticks, he returned to the cottage.
Giveen was still snoring, and Mr. Dashwood, who had no desire for his company, left him to his slumbers while he proceeded to the business of lighting the fire. Then he undid the package of provisions, and spread the contents on the dresser. Tinned meat and biscuits formed the store—nothing else, unless we include two small jars of olives, and as Mr. Dashwood looked at the row of biscuit bags and tins, he came to the conclusion that, however learned in eugenics and sociology, Miss Hitchen was somehow deficient in her knowledge of household management.
When he had untinned a tongue, put some biscuits on a plate, and boiled some water which, if you drink it hot enough and with your eyes shut you cannot distinguish from tea, he called his companion, and they sat down to their cheerless meal, Giveen amiable and even cheerful, seeming to find nothing extraordinary in his position, but fencing with the subject whenever Bobby brought the conversation in the direction of Siam, and—Mr. Dashwood noted—with his eye ever wandering to the door.
After breakfast Mr. Dashwood wrote the letter we have seen to Mr. French, and put it in his pocket, with a view to finding some means of sending it later. Then he took his charge out for a walk on the salt marshes. After dinner, with an old pack of cards, which he discovered in the dresser drawer, they playedbeggar-my-neighbour, and dusk closed on that terrible day and found them sitting without candles or lights of any sort by the embers of the fire, Mr. Giveen still amiable and even mildly cheerful.
Had he been obstreperous or quarrelsome, had he even asked questions as to Bobby's intentions, had he been irritable, the situation would have been more bearable; but he sat uncannily composed and amiable, and giving no hint of dissatisfaction with his position and no sign of revolt or evasion, with the exception of the tell-tale wandering of his eye every now and then towards the door.
Bobby's watch had run down, and Mr. Giveen had no timepiece, time being to him of no account, and, at an indeterminable hour, Mr. Dashwood, yawning, dragged his bed to the door by the light of the flickering fire and his prisoner retired to the bedroom, and, judging by the sound of snoring that soon filled the cottage, to sleep.
It was long past midnight, when Mr. Dashwood was aroused from sleep by cries from the night outside. The clouds had broken and a full moon was casting her light through the diamond panes of the window as, sitting up in bed, he strained his ears to listen.
It was Giveen's voice, and Giveen was shouting for help. He dragged the bed from the door, opened the door, and, without waiting to dress, rushed out into the night.
The cries were coming from the back of the cottage. Running round, he came upon the object of distress and the cause.
The front end of Mr. Giveen was protruding from the tiny window of the bedroom. This window had possessed a bar across it, which bar the prisoner, by a miracle of patience and dexterity, had removed. He had got his head and one arm and shoulder through, and there he was stuck.
"Help!" cried Mr. Giveen. "I'm stuck!"
"Try back!" cried Bobby. "Don't push forward, or you'll be stuck worse. What made you try to get out of that window, you sainted fool? It's not big enough for a child. Push back!"
"Back, is it?" cried the perspiring Giveen. "Back or front is all the same. I tell you I'm stuck for good. Help! Murder! Thieves!"
"Come forward, then," cried Bobby, seizing the free arm, "and shut that row. Now, then, all together! Push while I pull."
"Let up, or you'll have the arm off me!" cried the afflicted one. "Holy Mary! but you're murdering me! Go round to the room and pull at me legs if you want to pull. Maybe you'll get me in, for, be the powers, you may pull till you're black, but you'll never get me out."
"Right," said Bobby.
He ran round, entered the bedroom, which was in darkness, owing to the occlusion of the window, groped for the afflicted one's legs, found them, and pulled. Loud bellows from the night outside was the only result. First he pulled face fronting the window, and with one foot against the wall for purchase; then withhis back to Giveen and with one leg under each arm, pulling like a horse in the shafts, he pulled.
"Good heavens!" said Mr. Dashwood at last, taking his seat on the bed and wiping the perspiration from his brow, "I don't know what we're to do with the bounder, unless we pull the cottage down."
On the morning of the 10th of April Mr. French awoke from a night of pleasant dreams to find the sun shining broad and strong through the window of his bedroom.
He had dreamt of the great race; he had seen in a glorified vision the field sweeping round Tattenham Corner, Garryowen a length ahead of the favourite; he had heard the roar of the crowd, and had been congratulated by all sorts of dream-people, and the exhilaration of the vision clung to him as he dressed and accompanied him as he breakfasted.
Not a word had come from Mr. Dashwood since the letter announcing the "bottling" of Giveen, but no news in this case was good news.
Only three days now lay between him and the eventful 13th, and if Dashwood could only keep his prisoner safe for three days more, all would be well. The chance that Garryowen might not win the race never even occurred to French. He was certain; and one of the reasons of his certainty was the opposition that Fate had put in his way. He felt dimly that Fate would never have taken all this trouble to thwart him, would never have put so many obstacles in his path, if she were not sure that when the flag fell the victory of Garryowen would be a certainty.
After breakfast he went out on the Downs to watch the colt taking his exercise.
The length of the City and Suburban course hadbeen marked out on the great flat table-land, and here Garryowen and The Cat, the swiftest thing save Garryowen that French had ever possessed, were now exercising, Andy up on Garryowen and Buck Slane on The Cat. Moriarty, a straw in his mouth, was watching them.
"We'll do it, Moriarty," said French, as he took his stand beside his henchman and fixed his eyes on the distant horses that were being walked back towards him.
"I'm beginnin' to b'lave we will, sorr," replied Moriarty. "We'll just hit the cruck in the middle be the 15th. There's not a bit of overthrainin' about the colt. I've been keepin' him back for the last few days, for a horse all fiddle-strings is no more use on the course than a barber's cat at a concert.
"And did yiz ever hear of thim college chaps, sorr, that goes up for their 'xaminations wid the stuff stickin' out of their heads, and nothin' in their heads but addlement? Faith, Mr. Casey, of Thrinity College, told me of thim when he was down for the shootin'.
"He said he'd seen thim college boys, some of thim, larnin' up their stuff right till they were forenint the 'xaminers, wid their book in their hands till the last minit, and thim sort of chaps, says he, always gets stuck, for their 'rithmetic gets jammed in their Latin, and, when they open their gobs to spake, their g'ography comes out when it's Greek they ought to be answerin'. But you take the boys that aise off before the 'xamination day, says he, and they git through because they're the wise ones. Well, it's justthe same wid a horse, sorr! Addle his legs wid overthrainin', and you do for him."
"He's a good starter, he's a good goer, and he's got a jockey that knows him," said French as he watched the horses approaching, "and the jockey's a lot."
"A lot, sorr! It's everything, be the powers! Same as a wife to a man. And what is a wife, sorr, to a man, if she's a decent wife, but a jockey that brings him first past the winnin'-post if he's got the go in him?"
Mr. French assented to this sage pronouncement of Moriarty's, and returned to the house in high good spirits. He had just reached the verandah, when the sight of something coming up the path made him catch his breath.
This something was a telegraph boy.
"French?" said the boy, presenting an envelope. Mr. French tore it open.
"Giveen loose—clean got away—motoring down.—Dashwood."
"Any answer, sir?"
"No," said Mr. French, "there's no answer."
He stood for a moment with the paper crushed in his hand. He could hear the boy whistling as he went down the hill. Then he passed into the bungalow.
"Norah," cried Mr. French.
"Yes, sir."
"Fetch me the whisky decanter, and ask Miss Grimshaw to come here."
He went into the sitting-room. "Giveen loose—clean got away." The words danced before him andsang in his ears, turned somersaults, and stood on their heads like a troop of tormenting gamins.
In the crisis of a complex and fantastic tragedy such as that of French's, the most galling thing is the inability to seize the whole situation and meet it philosophically. A bank smash which sweeps away one's fortune is a four-square disaster, seizable if stunning; but this business of Garryowen's was ungraspable, and unmeasureable, and unfightable as a nightmare. The horse was in apparent safety one moment, and the next in imminent danger. Fortune was quite close now, and holding out her hand; now she was at a distance, and her hand, fingers extended, was at her nose.
Yesterday the dreaded Giveen was safe in Ireland; to-day he was attending the village bazaar. Now Mr. Dashwood had him a safe prisoner down in the wilds of Essex, and now he had escaped. The fight for fortune had been a long one, vast obstacles had been overcome. Was it all to end at the last moment in disaster?
When Miss Grimshaw entered the room she found Mr. French seated at the table, with the open telegram before him, and at his side a glass of whisky and water and a decanter.
"Read that," said he.
She took the message and read it with a constriction at the heart.
"Well," said he, "what do you think of that?"
Miss Grimshaw, before answering, took the whisky decanter from the table and put it on the side table.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid of me," said French."I'm too much at the end of my tether to care very much what happens. Faith, I wouldn't take the bother to get drunk."
"All the same," said the girl, "we must meet this with as cool a head as possible. 'Motoring down.'" (She was reading the message.) "Who does he mean, I wonder? Of course, he must mean himself, because he evidently does not know where Mr. Giveen is, or what he's doing. It was handed in at Regent Street this morning at 9.15; received here at 10.2. It is now nearly eleven."
"Listen!" said French.
Sounds came very clearly up here from the lower land, and the sound which had attracted French's attention was the throb of a motor-car approaching along the station road.
Moved by an identical impulse, they approached the window leading on to the verandah. Mr. French opened it, and they passed out.
Miss Grimshaw and Mr. French could see the car—a large touring car—approaching slowly; there was only one individual in it, and—"That's him!" said Miss Grimshaw, forgetful of grammar, leaving the verandah and taking the down-hill path to the road.
French followed her, and they reached the road just as the car was coming to a halt. It was Mr. Dashwood, in very truth, but a more different edition of the joyous and irresponsible Bobby it would be hard to imagine. His hat on the back of his head exposed fully his face, grimy, unwashed, and weary. He had, altogether, the disreputable appearance of a person whohas been out all night, and as he crawled out of the car, his movements suggested old age or rheumatism.
"Something to eat!" said Bobby as he took French's arm with his left hand and held out his right to Miss Grimshaw. "I'm nearly done. Giveen is loose, but I'll tell you it all when I get up to the house. Thanks, may I lean on you? The car will be all right here."
"Come along up," said French.
No word was said till Mr. Dashwood was seated in the sitting-room, with a glass of whisky and soda in his hand.
"Oh, this is good!" said he. "I haven't had a drink since I don't know how long."
"Don't drink till you have had some food," said the girl. "I'll get something for you at once. There's a tin of tongue——"
"Don't!" said Mr. Dashwood. "Don't mention tinned meat or biscuits to me. I've lived on them. Oh, heavens! don't let me think of it!"
"An egg?"
"Yes, an egg—anything but tinned meat. It's almost as bad as Giveen."
In five minutes the egg was boiled, and half an hour after Mr. Dashwood, young again, smoking a pipe of French's, began his recital.
He told all we know—how he had "shanghaied" Mr. Giveen, how that gentleman had tried to escape, and had stuck in the window. "I pulled and hauled," said Bobby, "but it was all no use; and, upon my Sam! I thought it would be a business of pulling the cottage down."
"How did you get him loose at last?" asked French. "And why the deuce didn't you leave him stuck there till the race was over? You could have fed him from the outside."
"Upon my soul, I never thought of that!" said Mr. Dashwood. "I felt I had to get him free somehow, and then I thought of a patent dodge. I'd heard of a chap lighting a fire of straw under a horse that wouldn't go, and I knew the only way to free the beggar was to make him use all his exertions, and even more; so I got some straw out of the outhouse place and made a big wisp of it, and lit it. Made a torch, you know. 'What are you doing?' he said. 'You wait and see,' I replied, and jabbed it in his face. You wouldn't believe it, but he went in 'pop' like when you push a cork down into a bottle. Then I ran round and secured him.
"Well, I pointed out to him next morning the error of his ways, and he promised to make no more attempts to escape. 'Look here,' said I, 'I've been pretending to you I was cracked. I'm not. I just got you down here because I'm a friend of French, and I don't want you to set Lewis on him, and here you'll stay till I choose to let you loose. It's as bad for me as you—worse, for you're a beastly slow companion. Anyhow, here you are, and here you'll stick till I give you leave to go.'
"At that he began saying that he had no enmity to you at all, and that if I'd only let him loose he'd go back to Ireland and make no more trouble; but I told him straight out I wouldn't trust him, and there thematter ended. I had written a letter to you, and I had it in my pocket. A half-witted sort of boy came round the place, and I gave him the letter and sixpence to post it. Did you get it?"
"We did."
"I felt when I gave him it like old Noah letting the dove out of the Ark, and then we settled down to our tinned meat and biscuits. Oh, heavens! I don't want to talk or think of it. We played beggar-my-neighbour with an old pack of cards. Then my tobacco gave out. Giveen didn't mind. He was quite happy on the tinned meat, and he doesn't smoke or drink, and I had to go through it all without complaining, and that was the worst of it."
"I think it was splendid of you," said the girl. "Go on."
"Faith, and 'splendid' is no word," exclaimed French. "You're certainly a friend in a million. Go on."
Fortified by these praises, the weary one continued his narrative.
"Well, day after day passed, till I began, like those chaps that get shipwrecked, to lose count of time. I heard church bells ringing the day before yesterday, for instance, and then I knew it was Sunday, somewhere, for it didn't seem Sunday or any other day in that beastly cottage. Time seemed to have stopped. You see, there were no books there, no newspapers, nothing, and my tobacco had given out; and against all that misery the tinned meat and biscuits began to stand out in such high relief that mealtime became ahorror. Oh, Heaven! don't let me talk about it! I want to try to forget it.
"Well, things went on like that till it came to yesterday, and I said to myself: 'This can't go on any longer, for I'm beginning to hear voices, and the next thing will be I'll see things. Southend is only ten or eleven miles away. It's a flat road, and there's a car outside. I'll lock Giveen up in his room, make a dash for Southend, in the car, get some tobacco and a bottle of whisky and some books, and dart back again. I'll do the whole thing in an hour or so, and it's better to take the risk than lose my reason.'
"So I just told Giveen I was very sorry, but he'd have to accommodate himself to circumstances, and I got a fishing-line of the uncle's, and fastened his wrists behind his back. Then I fastened him with a rope and a rolling band knot to the iron bedstead in the bedroom, told him I wouldn't be more than an hour away, locked the door on him, jumped into the car, and drove off.
"I got to Southend in record time. I only ran over one hen, but I very nearly had an old woman and a dog. I piled up with sixpenny novels and comic papers at the first bookshop, got three bottles of whisky, half a pound of navy-cut, and some matches, and started back. It was half-past three when I left Southend, and I hadn't gone more than two miles when the car came to a dead stop. I don't know the 'innards' of a car. I only knew that the thing had stopped, that I was nine miles from the cottage, and that the car was right in the fair way blocking the road.
"A butcher's cart came along, and the butcher got down and helped me to push her out of the middle on to the side of the road. He said he didn't know of any repairing-shop or blacksmith's nearer than Southend. I asked him to lend me his horse to drag the car back to Southend, but he couldn't. He had his meat to deliver, but he said I'd be sure to find help before long, as there was a lot of traffic on the road. So off he went and left me.
"I thought of leaving the old car to look after herself, and going back to the cottage on foot; but I couldn't do that, as I'd never have been able to come back for her, and she's worth eight or nine hundred. So I just sat in her and smoked a pipe and waited.
"I tell you, I was in a stew, for I didn't know if I'd made the fishing-line too tight for Giveen's wrists, and if they swelled, mortification, or goodness knows what, might have come on; and I began to think of having to support him for life if his hands had to be cut off; and then I began to think that maybe he might die of it, and I'd be hanged for murder or gaoled for life.
"Presently a big touring car came along, with a young fellow and a chauffeur in it, and I signalled them to stop, and it pulled up, and who should it be but Billy Bones! He's Lord St. Ivel's second son, you know; they call him 'Billy Bones' because they say he never eats anything else but grilled bones at three o'clock in the morning. Last time I'd seen him was at the Rag-Tag Club, in Cork Street, at two o'clock on a Sunday morning, playing bridge with one eye shut to see the pips on the cards. Billy is one of those men who knoweverything, and he knows all about the inside of a motor-car—or thinks he does.
"'Hello!' said Billy, 'what's up?'
"I told him, and he hopped out of his car, and said he'd have everything right in a minute. He got out his repairing tools, whipped off his coat, and got right under the car with his tools, lying on his back in the dust of the road. He's one of those fellows who don't care what they do. I could hear him under the car, and he seemed taking the whole thing to pieces. You could hear the nuts coming out and the pipes being unscrewed and the petrol escaping. He was stuck under there for half an hour or so, and then he came out, looking like a sweep, and he said it was all right, and I only had to start her. But she wouldn't stir.
"He got under her again, and spent another half-hour tinkering at her, and then he came out and said it was all right this time, and told me to start her. I started her, but she wouldn't budge. Then Billy told his chauffeur to see what he could do, and the chauffeur didn't get under the car; he just examined the petrol supply business, and in about sixteen seconds she was all right. 'I thought I'd done it,' said Billy, putting on his coat.
"There was an hour clean gone, and, I tell you, if I came fast to Southend I flew going back. I got her under the shed and went to the cottage. As soon as I went in I saw something was wrong, for the bedroom door was open. I looked into the bedroom, and Giveen was gone."
"Bad cess to him!" said French, who had been following the raconteur with deep interest.
"I went to the door and looked around," said Mr. Dashwood, "and then I saw, far away on the road, the idiot chap that had taken my letter. He must have come to the cottage looking after more sixpences and let Giveen loose. It was now getting on for five, and the dusk was closing in. I rushed to the car, got her out of the shed, and started off on the London road. You see, I knew he hadn't taken the Southend road, or I'd have met him, and there was nowhere else for him to go, unless he'd taken to the marshes, or gone into the sea.
"I turned the car so sharp from the by-road into the London road that I nearly upset her, and then I let her loose. I had a chapter of accidents, for my hat blew off, and I had to stop and get it. Three children were making mud-pies in the middle of the way right before a cottage, and I as nearly as possible made hash of them. A fellow left the cottage and chivied me half a mile, and took a short cut where the road bent like a hairpin, and as nearly as possible nailed me. He wanted to get my number, I suppose—but he didn't.
"Then I remembered that I ought to have my lamps lit," continued Mr. Dashwood. "It was getting on for an hour after sundown, and those police on the country roads don't mind swearing to ten minutes. I wouldn't have minded if it had been an ordinary affair, but it wasn't by any means, and I didn't want to be summoned or else I couldn't swear an alibi if Giveen took an action against me for kidnapping him. So I stopped the car and got down and lit the lamps."
Mr. Dashwood paused.
"Yes," said his listeners.
"Only for that piece of confoundedly foolish carefulness, I'd have collared Giveen."
Mr. French swallowed hastily, as if he were swallowing down something unpleasant, then: "Go on," he said.
"Think of it!" said Mr. Dashwood. "I've always taken chances and come out all right, and the first time I'm careful there I go and spoil everything. Isn't it enough to make a fellow cuss?"
"It is," said French, "and it's just the same way with me. But go on."
"I got the blessed old lamps alight," said Bobby, "and the blessed old car going, and I'd gone scarcely half a mile when I saw before me, after I'd rounded a bend of the road, a cart going full speed. It was one of those gipsy sort of carts that fellows hawk chickens and things about in, harness half string, and an old horse like a scarecrow to look at, but like a steam engine to go. There were two men in the cart, and one was Giveen. Though it was pretty dusk, I could tell him, for he'd taken his hat off, and his bald head shone like a stone. He evidently met the cart and paid the man for a lift.
"'Now,' said I to myself, slowing down a bit so that I could think, 'what am I to do? If I try to seize him by force the fellow he's with will help him to resist, maybe, and, if he doesn't, he's sure to tell about the affair at the next village, and I'll have the police on to me. I know—a smash-up is the only thing. I'll ramthem full speed and hang the damage. I stand as good a chance to be killed as either of them. If Giveen is killed, or the sweep he's with—well, it's the fortune of war. If none of us is killed, I'll sit on Giveen's head and send the other Johnnie for help. Then, while he's gone, I'll nobble Giveen and drag him back to the cottage, across country this time, and leave the old motor to look after herself.'"
"Did you really intend to do that?" asked Violet Grimshaw, looking at Bobby with a mixture of wonder and admiration.
"Intend to do it? Why, I did it, only the old car didn't. I shoved the lever full speed ahead, and what does she do but stop dead and shoot me on to her bonnet!"
"Did Giveen see you?" asked French.
"No. He never looked back once, and he and the old cart he was in vanished in the dusk. It was when I got down to light the lamps that something happened to the machinery. I must have pulled up too sharp, for I heard something go in the fore part of the engine. Anyhow, I was done for.