The steam trawler "Felice" out of Cherbourg was not much to look at, but none the less she was a lady of virtue and of good intention. Her engines had lost the sweet voice of youth through long argument and bitter contest with the stern affronts of life. Where once they had hummed and purred now they racketed and nagged, but they got through the work none the less well on that account. The life of a fish wife hardens the temperament and loosens the tongue and the "Felice" was no exception to the rule. A plain, strident, powerful old woman bucketing through calm and trouble with the same reproach for either. The "Felice" wore rusty black—coarse and patched. She had long ago forsaken her girlish waist band of royal blue esteeming such fallals better suited to the children of the fleet. She was a no-nonsense lady, one of the "up and doing and you be damned" sort, but she boasted at least one unusual feature, the pride and envy of her fellows. She was fitted with an aerial, the relic of an age when small vessels went forth to sweep up big mines very often to be swept up themselves while so engaged and to mention the fact by wireless in the short interval between being struck and sinking.
Anthony Barraclough, wrapped in a suit of borrowed oilskins, leaned against the deck-house and grinned at the breaking day. Like a fire opal the sun rose out of the sea, its first rays dissipating the ghostlike wisps of fog that drifted over the water. The "Felice" was shouldering her way up channel against the slap of a running tide and the greeny-black waves, as yet undyed by the morning blue, spumed and spattered over the bows and wetted her decks with a sharp salt rain.
"Oh, Lord!" said Barraclough, dashing the spray out of his eyes. "Oh,Lord! it's good to be alive."
His hand travelled to an inside breast pocket and stayed there, his fingers lovingly caressing a case of morocco leather.
"And it's good to have brought it off. Damned good." His eyes looked aloft to the sagging wires of the aerial.
"Wonder if I dare send 'em a message. Better not perhaps. Besides, I want the fun of springing it on 'em myself. Still, I might give 'em a hint—something to set 'em thinking."
He puzzled for a moment then broke into a fresh grin for a dainty little code had suggested itself. It would be rather amusing to talk to a group of financiers in the language of flowers. A memory of Isabel's last words put the idea into his head when she had given him the dog rose on the evening of his departure.
"It means hope, Tony," and "Hope it is," he had replied.
He turned to the little companion ladder and shouted into the dark beneath.
"Ohe, Jean Prevost, half a minute."
And in answer appeared the head and shoulders of a short, thick-set, twinkly eyed, unshaven man who gruffly demanded "Quoi?"
Jean Prevost, skipper of the "Felice," was not an "oil painting" to look at but he was just as reliable as the craft he commanded. He and Barraclough had had dealings together during the war and they respected each other. If Jean Prevost were proud of anything it was of his acquaintance with Barraclough and the knowledge he esteemed himself to possess of the English tongue.
"Fizz me off a message on the wireless, there's a good soul."
"Hah!"
"Gerard, Regent Street, W. Deliver immediately single dog rose to LordAlmont Frayne, Park Lane Mansions."
Jean Prevost nodded and repeated the message verbatim.
"That's it. Quick as you can."
"I send 'im now, I blerdy will. We find ze trawlers blerdy soon."
Jean Prevost showed a regrettable liberality in the use of this popular adjective which he firmly believed lent vitality and refinement to any sentence.
"That'll set them thinking," said Barraclough, as he turned away with a smile. "Ha, the Eddystone!"
In direct line with their course rising like a thin twig out of the sea showed the silhouette of the lighthouse, while between it and the now faintly discernible mainland tiny dots of brown showed upon the water.
Your true Englishman is an absurd creation for he cannot return to his native land even after the shortest absence, he cannot see the faint familiar landmarks, the nestling villages, the rolling downs, the white chalk or grey granite of her battlements, without a throb of honest grateful pride. An imperial singing sounds in his ears—tuned to the measure of breaking surf—such a song as lovers sing whose single words are no more than this, "I am yours and you are mine."
"Tonight," he said. "Tonight I shall see her again."
There was the appointment at his rooms at 11 o'clock when he would place the concession in Mr. Torrington's hands. That would be a big moment. He could imagine Cranbourne's unbridled enthusiasm, Lord Almont's congratulations in the style of P. G. Wodehouse, and Cassis, that person of dry ashes and parchment, unbending to the greatness of the occasion. He, Barraclough, was a made man, every newspaper in the country would send its reporters to clamour at his doors, every charity seek his aid when the story and the magnitude of his find became known. From an ordinary commonplace individual, he would be transformed into a figure of the age, the observed of all eyes, the target of every tongue. And yet, the world at his feet, the wealth, the prominence, the power, the achievement, faded and dwindled into nothing at all beside one absurd but adorable longing. It was the thought of Isabel sitting on the floor, hugging her knees, resting her chin upon them, looking at him with great wide open eyes, smiling at him with moist trembling lips.
Over head the aerial fizzed and crackled as his message voyaged forth into space. The tiny dots between the Eddystone and the land took form and detail and became the brown sails of a fishing fleet lolling idly in the bay.
A hand on his shoulder aroused him from his reverie and he turned to find Jean Prevost standing beside him.
Barraclough pointed to the North East.
"Number fifty-seven," he said.
The old skipper focussed a pair of binoculars and steadied them against a stay of the funnel.
"Zere," he said, and pointed at a solitary sail to the West of its fellows. "Heem! You see?"
Barraclough nodded.
"Diamond's a reliable chap. Always as good as his word. How long shall we be?"
"Quarter hour—ten minit."
Nothing more was said until the "Felice" came alongside the solitary fishing boat from the bows of which a tall bronzed seaman gave them a welcoming hail.
"Good-bye and good luck, Jean Prevost," said Barraclough. "You'll hear from me in a day or two."
"And blerdy good luck to you," said the Frenchman gripping the extended hand.
Barraclough dropped over the side and landed on the stern sheets of Number 57. A bell clanked and the "Felice" lurched away ruffing the glassy water with her screw.
"Be ye right?" demanded Diamond, drawing up the cable of his anchor.
"Sure thing," said Barraclough. "Let her go."
The anchor came out of the water with a plop, the brown sail was twisted and a little auxiliary oil engine began to snort.
"Wind's settin' just right," said Diamond, the sheet in one hand and the tiller in the other. "Ye 'ad a good time?"
"First rate. Tell you all about it one of these days."
A friendly puff of wind from the South East filled the canvas and drove them shoreward at a slant, the water lapping gently against the bows. It seemed a very little while before they rounded the headland and entered the narrow funnel of cliffs leading into Polperro. Not a soul was to be seen at the breakwater, a circumstance Barraclough noted with satisfaction, although he had no reason to expect opposition. They lowered sail at the harbour mouth and came alongside a slippery wooden ladder stapled into the stone wall of the pier.
"Ye'll take a bite o' breakwus?"
"Not this journey, Jack. I'm getting off as fast as I can. Here, you'd better freeze on to these oil skins. No good to me." He stripped off the coat he was wearing, shook hands, and mounted the ladder.
"Thanks awfully. I'll be down this way for my honeymoon. Good-bye."
With a cheery wave and a smile he started down the jetty at a brisk walk.
Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance.
Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot—a man's voice—and as the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by enemies.
Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name "Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the net and raised it in the air.
It was the barest fluke that the manoeuvre should have worked so well. Harrison Smith stumbled heavily, grabbed at Dirk and missed him. Barraclough's foot just above his waist line destroyed the last of his equilibrium and over the edge he went into the shallow water below. Unquestionably the beer was responsible for Dirk's failure to win the engagement. His quarry was before him in an open position. He should have used his Mascot and used it hard. It was sheer criminal stupidity to have looked over the edge at his fallen commander. Maybe the angry scarlet of Dirk's complexion provoked Barraclough's attack and before the poor man had recovered from his surprise a heavy lobster pot came smashing down over his face with agonising force, the splintering basket-work playing havoc with his features. Then he, too, experienced the unique sensation of gliding downward through space, a delight somewhat marred by the rudeness of its finish.
Barraclough did not stay to behold the result of his offensive, but picked up his heels and ran. Just beyond the open fish market he saw a neglected Ford car and hesitated an instant to debate whether or no he should appropriate it. At the time he did not connect it with the two men wallowing in harbour waters. Had he done so he would certainly have driven it over the edge of the quay into the mud. His own car was waiting less than a quarter of a mile away—an Hispano Suisa built for speed—and the sense of speed ran through his own veins. As he raced up the narrow, twisting street the good wives of the village turned on their doorsteps, open mouthed, to watch him pass. He scarcely bothered to glance over his shoulder satisfied that he had gained an easy five minutes' start. Coming abreast of the three cottages he vaulted the stock yard wall, threw open a gate and made for the stable door fumbling in his pocket for the key of the padlock.
And suddenly an oath broke from his lips crisp, concise, and covering. The first trick had been scored by him but undoubtedly Harrison Smith had won the second. The blocked up keyhole told its own tale. He knew the door very well and it would be half an hour's work to break it down, also he knew the padlock having bought it himself. The Hispano Suisa would have to be abandoned.
He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened.
"How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped.
A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white patch of the high road came into view.
A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely masked with brushwood and bramble vine.
Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving.
The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun, turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane into the main road.
Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two men—an excited yell and an oath—they were almost on top of him when the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise, choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in half that number of seconds.
"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.
Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.
Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind screen.
"Take the wheel—take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith, snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."
Somehow they contrived to change places. A sharp rise in the ground had perceptibly slackened the speed of Barraclough's mount and he reduced his lead still further by hanging on to the top gear a couple of seconds too long. The Ford, on the other hand, was beginning to improve and leapt at the hill eagerly. No more than fifty yards separated pursued from pursuer.
Harrison Smith sat on the back of the driving seat and bided his time. A glance ahead showed him the road winding up interminably at the very incline at which a Ford car develops its greatest efficiency and goes sailing past nearly everything else on the road.
"Got him," he said, "got him cold."
This comforting reflection awoke in his breast a sporting fancy. After all it was more fun to shoot a man than to ride him down.
The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him. Then it was Harrison Smith fired. Barraclough saw the flash out of the tail of his eye and simultaneously his motor cycle seemed to leap forward with a noisy roar. The bullet had struck the exhaust pipe cutting it clear of the silencer and making him a gift of five miles an hour. A new life seemed to run through the veins of the machine and the hill flattened out before him like a level track. As he realised the charity of Fate, Barraclough lifted a gladsome "Yoicks" and waved his right arm above his head. Again the pistol cracked and a red hot knitting needle seemed to pass through the palm of his hand. As he brought it back to the handle bar he saw a pale blue circle between his first and second finger bubble into scarlet and black.
"You scum, you dirty scum," he cried, "but it'll take more than a bullet through the hand to bring down my flag."
He jerked the gear lever back into top and shot full bore at the down grade before him. As the Ford car breasted the top of the hill its passengers were rewarded by the sight of a tiny speck of dust tearing along a ribbon of white in the valley below.
Everyone agreed it was a difficult morning on the Stock Exchange, although for that matter a great many mornings during the past three weeks had been the same. The bottom had fallen out of innumerable cans. Persons with scarlet or greenish white faces were waving their hands and calling on the Deity to explain the collapse of cast iron securities. If there had been a threat of war things could hardly have been worse. The worst of it was that none of the big sellers seemed disposed to give their reasons for unloading. Mr. Hilbert Torrington, when asked why he had sold huge quantities of oil shares, courteously replied to all and various that he had no observations to make. The oil market, particularly that controlled by Hugo Van Diest, had slumped fifteen points in three days and the others had fallen sympathetically. And now, as though the oil collapse were not enough, appeared Ezra P. Hipps unloading Estuary Rails at a price that would hardly pay for printing the scrip. Ten days earlier the Estuary had looked like a cinch and Nugent Cassis, who had a reputation for sanity, had been buying it by the yard. Here was stock at nineteen shillings being offered at fivepence, and no rush to take it up even at that price. Everyone knew that Hipps was the moving spirit in the Estuary. His holdings were enormous.
"In Heaven's name, man, what's the idea?" was shouted at him from every side.
"I'm getting out," was the only answer he condescended.
Nugent Cassis was beginning to lose his nerve as emphasised by the fact that he was continually winding his watch or pulling at his precise grey beard. His usual air of calm ill-humour had deserted him and, as Lord Almont laconically remarked, "Poor old Cassis is flapping in the wind."
"Can't understand their motive," he repeated over and over again. "If they believe they've got Barraclough tucked safely away, what can they gain by this stock juggling?"
"They are laying a false scent presumably," said Mr. Torrington.
"They must be aware that we know about the kidnapping."
"I imagine so. At any rate Cranbourne intends to put them wise."
"Then where's the object?"
"Our friend Frencham Altar has disappointed 'em perhaps, so they turn their attentions once more to our humble selves."
"Makes me almost wish we'd left the whole thing alone. Seventy thousand pounds in three weeks. Appalling! Appalling!"
"But consider how we shall be requited when Barraclough turns up with the concession."
"Ifhe turns up."
"We shall know at eleven o'clock tonight."
"That's purely hypothetical."
"My dear Cassis, the world is made up of hypotheses—dreams that sometimes come true. What are you doing with your holdings in Estuary?"
"I'm selling."
The old man's eyes blazed.
"On the contrary, my friend. This is a fight and we fight to a finish, please. By your leave we do not take the count until tomorrow morning."
"I'm not made of money," Cassis complained.
"Very well then, if you are determined to sell—sell to me."
"Are you crazy?"
"Possibly. Come over here."
Mr. Torrington took Cassis by the arm and led him to the excited group surrounding Ezra P. Hipps. The American's head and shoulders appeared above the crowd. He was offering Estuary Rails at fourpence three farthings. Catching sight of Nugent Cassis he broke into a grin, shook his head sadly and asked:
"Coming to join the party?"
"We are," replied Mr. Torrington, "in the form of purchasers. I'll buy at four-three."
The American frowned.
"Say, you serious, Mr. Wise Man?"
"Perfectly."
"What'll you take?"
"All you've got."
The news went round like wild fire and half an hour later the price ofEstuaries was running up like quicksilver dipped in hot water.
"What in hell do you make of that?" Hipps demanded of his chief.
Hugo Van Diest shrugged his shoulders.
"He wass a doughty adversary, dis Mr. Torrington," he replied. "Must egshpect dis sort of ting."
"Guess there's more behind it than that. What are they hoping on, anyway?"
"Donno—donno."
But the sudden appearance of Sydney Cranbourne did something to enlighten them.
"Forgive my intrusion, gentlemen," he said, "but could you give me a possible date on which we might expect the return of our mutual friend?"
Neither Hipps nor Van Diest betrayed the smallest surprise.
"Our mutual friend, Mister Cranbourne?"
"I was referring to a gentleman whose initials are A. B."
"A. B.! Wasn't that the guy who went out to look for a radium field three weeks ago today?"
"The same," said Cranbourne sweetly. "But we had reason to believe he changed his plans and accepted another invitation."
"You've been dreaming, dear," said Hipps.
"Perhaps I have, Mr. Hipps. The matter is of no great importance but I dreamt of the Old Bailey among other things and of three gentlemen, prominent in financial circles, who were charged with unlawfully detaining someone against his will and endeavouring to induce him to confide certain information."
"And then, I suppose," remarked Hipps, "you woke up and knocked over your cup of early tea."
"Why, no," replied Cranbourne. "I sat up in bed and worked out details for the flotation of the Radium Company in which I have an interest."
Hipps looked at Van Diest, shook his head and tapped his brow.
"Sure it's the heat," he said. "There ain't going to be any flotation that I've heard of."
"Think not? It would be a pity if you gentlemen gave way to overmuch expression of optimism. It hardly accords with your actions of the last few days."
Van Diest smiled expansively.
"Ver' distressing dis uneven market."
"I imagine you must have found it so."
"Poor Mister Cassis—he was ver' green dis morning."
"Our dear Cassis is a born actor. Well, gentlemen, I won't keep you any longer except to offer my sympathy that you have found A. B. so indifferent a confidant. Good day."
And with a polite bow he turned and mingled with the crowd.
"Can't quite get the strength of all that," observed Hipps as he and Van Diest passed out of the main door, "but one thing sticks out a mile. We can't hold our prisoner indefinitely. He must be made to talk right away."
"Dis evening we make the big effort."
"And assumin' it fails?"
"Dat would be a peety—such a peety."
Hipps stood thinking for a moment.
"I've half a mind to turn on the girl again. Let her vamp the secret out of him. We don't progress, you know. Say, you don't think they've a line on where we've got him hid?"
Van Diest waved away the suggestion.
"No, no, no. S'all right. S'arranged too well."
"Then I'll trot up West and buy Auriole a lunch. What time tonight?"
"At nine o'clock."
"I'll be along."
He jumped into a taxi, drove round and collected Auriole and carried her off to the Carlton Hotel. She seemed tired and lacklustre, a circumstance he noted with some small annoyance.
"See here, kid," he said. "We've a big set piece scheduled for tonight and you're a participant."
"I am."
"Sure. Our friend has proved a disappointment in the talking line."
For a moment a flash of enthusiasm burned in her eyes.
"The persecution has failed then?"
"It's early to say so but we've a notion it 'ud do no harm to accelerate a trifle."
"You'd hardly dare torture him more than you've done already."
"We thought of trying out one or two new effects but supposing they fail then it's up to you to take a hand."
"No," said Auriole, "no. You found me a failure before—let's leave it at that. My part's ended."
"Haven't you kind o' forgotten something?"
"What?"
"My offer to you was made providing we pull off this deal. Failing that it's cancelled."
Auriole's expression, seemed to go very flat indeed. There was a look of disgust in her eyes.
"What do you want?"
"Maybe we shall call on you for the 'whisper and I shall hear' act.It'd make a nice variety for Anthony after the shouting."
"You want me to make love to him?"
"Sure. And I'll try and govern my jealousy for a short stretch."
She was silent for a longish while, then she nodded.
"But only as a last resort," she insisted.
"That's a bet. Me and Van'll be trundling along in the Rolls about ninish—care to join us?"
"No, I'll use the two seater."
"Back your fancy. But see here—no back sliding, mind. A hell of a lot hangs on his being made to talk—a hell of a lot," he repeated seriously.
"What do you mean?"
"Never do for a fine chap like him to die young."
"Die? You wouldn't dare."
"It's certain sure we wouldn't dare turn him out in the world again after what's happened."
"Do you mean you'd——"
"Think it over."
And she thought it over while Ezra P. Hipps addressed himself to a liberal helping of saddle of mutton smeared with great dollops of red currant jelly that looked to her like blood.
An undercurrent of suppressed excitement pulsed through Mrs. Barraclough's household on the day of the seventeenth. You could feel it throbbing like the beat of a distant drum. Voices sounded different, eyes shone strangely, feet touched the ground as though it lacked solidity. A sense of electricity was in the air, like the unnatural calm that is herald to a storm. Mrs. Barraclough herself was the one person outwardly unaffected by the general mood and set about her daily duties as though nothing were happening. She never even mentioned Anthony's name but instead freely discussed the imminent confinement of Mrs. Brassbound, the wife of the village policeman. She loved babies and it struck her as a happy omen that the little arrival was expected on the very day that should mark her son's return from excursions and alarums.
Isabel rang her up during the morning—a trunk call—with the brave intention of expressing firm and unshakable optimism but the effort was pathetically tremulous and finally petered out with inarticulate sobs and chokings.
"Oh, dear, dear! That will never do," said Mrs. Barraclough, mastering a powerful desire to kiss the microphone into which she spoke. "You mustn't even imagine anything could go wrong. Now, what are you going to do this afternoon?"
Sniff! "I donno—nuffin'," came over the wire moistly.
"Then I'll tell you. You'll go round to your dressmaker's and try on your wedding dress and pretend you're walking down the aisle with your hand on Tony's arm."
"I c-couldn't—b-but it's a l-lovely idea."
"Of course you could and you've got to. After all, it's what you'll be doing in real earnest next Thursday."
Mrs. Barraclough could almost swear to having seen the smile that dried up those tears that fell a hundred and fifty miles away.
"I'll t-try," said a tiny voice. "You are a d-darling." And later in the afternoon the telephone bell rang again sad the same voice, with a brave ring to it, announced "I've got it on."
After that Mrs. Barraclough was perfectly sure everything would be all right and walked down to the village to enquire about the prospective mother.
Shortly after she had gone Jane, who was entering the drawing room with a silver tea tray, had a real adventure. On pushing open the door she had an impression of two black coat tails disappearing through the French windows into the garden. With perilous despatch she set down the tray and rushed out to the gravel path, calling loudly to Flora. Flora, arrayed in a greasy blue overall, came hurrying from the garage where she had been spending the day tinkering with the car.
"Yes, what is it?" she cried.
Jane was pointing down a grove of Dorothy Perkins at the end of which a stout figure in black was retreating.
"That old clergyman!"
"What about him?"
"I'll swear he was in this room when I brought in the tea."
"You sure?"
"Positive. I saw him pass the house two or three times this morning and yesterday too."
"Half a mo," said Flora and hurried over to the writing table. "I say, haven't these papers been moved?"
"Yes, they have. My eye! it's exciting. What do you make of it?"
"Something fishy."
"Do you think—do you possibly think it's anything to do with Mr.Anthony?"
Jane's eyes sparkled like jewels at the very thought of anything so adorable.
"I bet it has," said Flora. "What else could it be?"
"Might be just a rotten burglary."
"Chuck it," said Flora. "Don't spoil a decent show."
"I don't want to. But didn't she tell you Mr. Anthony had spoofed the crowd that were against him?"
"Um! But they were a downey lot and p'raps after all they didn't buy the spoof."
"Wouldn't it be terrific," exclaimed Jane, clasping her hands, "wouldn't it be terrific if there was a dust up down here and we were in it."
"Shut up," Flora implored, "it's a jolly sight too good to be true.Better light the spirit lamp, the old lady'll be in to tea directly."
The words were scarcely spoken before a shadow was cast across the floor and Mrs. Barraclough appeared at the window carrying a basket of roses.
"Conybeare," she said, addressing the old Devonian gardener who was trimming the borders a few yards away. "Conybeare, I am going down to Mrs. Brassbound later in the evening. I want you to cut me a nice bunch of grapes and some vegetables—nice ones."
The old fellow touched his cap and moved away. Mrs. Barraclough entered smilingly.
"And I shall want the car, Flora."
"It's all ready. I'll bring it round, madam."
"There's no hurry. Aren't these roses delicious?" She buried her face in the orgy of pink, crimson and yellowy-white blooms. "Give me that bowl, my dear."
And while she took a few from the basket and arranged them in the big silver bowl she continued pleasantly—
"I always wish I were a girl again when I pick roses. There's a sentiment about them—and perhaps a danger—a nice sort of danger. You know, it's very sad to reach an age at which danger no longer exists. By the way, a very singular thing happened to me on my way to the village. I was followed, Flora!"
"Followed! But who'd dare?" said Jane.
Mrs. Barraclough pouted pathetically.
"Please don't say that," she begged. "It makes one feel so old. After all, there is no law to prevent one being followed unless it is the law of selection."
"Who followed you?" asked Flora.
"A man," replied Mrs. Barraclough with ceremony. "A very respectable man. He revived a sense of youth in me by wearing elastic sided boots."
"What was his face like?"
"In the circumstances, Jane, I kept my eyes discreetly downcast, but I had a fleeting impression of clerical broadcloth."
"That man!" exclaimed Flora with sudden emphasis.
"My dear, it is most unbecoming to speak disparagingly of a member of the clergy. As a girl the word curate inspired in me feelings of respect and sentiment."
"There's not much to get sentimental over in that old beast," said Jane. "He's been hanging around since yesterday evening and what's more, I'll bet he's up to no good."
Mrs. Barraclough had her own opinion of the mysterious parson who had addressed her in the lane but she preferred to arrive at the opinions of others by her own method.
"I am sure it is very wrong to bet on clergymen as though they were race horses," she replied.
"But honestly," said Flora, "I believe he is a bad hat."
"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly wore one—a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run along and leave me to myself."
After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:
"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer—I wish I didn't think—Oh, well!"
She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet cough caused her to start and rise quickly.
In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat hung in festoons over his globular form, his scarlet face was wreathed in smiles. In his hand he carried a black and white straw hat and a pair of black kid gloves. He placed the hat in the middle of his waist line and bowed apologetically.
"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon."
Mrs. Barraclough was equal to the occasion and presented a perfect example of mid-Victorian austerity.
"May I ask, sir, why you enter my house other than by the front door?And also what persuaded you to address me in the lane this afternoon?"
"My dear lady," protested Mr. Bolt with a world of unction. "I come from a part of the country where formality is unknown and where a minister—a minister of the gospel—enters into the hearts and the homes of men and of women by the shortest possible route."
"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.
At which her visitor expressed himself as greatly shocked and turned his eyes heavenward.
"I remark with sorrow," he observed, "that you are not a true believer.Your faith is not of the simple kind."
He could hardly have chosen an unhappier argument. Mrs. Barraclough's devotion was a byword in the parish. To be treated thus by a totally unknown clergyman was not to be tolerated. Her doubt as to the probity of this person fostered by Jane and Flora took definite shape. She decided to interrogate and, if necessary, expose him without further preamble.
"It is customary for visitors to be announced," she said. "I would be obliged if you would tell me your name."
Mr. Bolt sighed and seated himself heavily on the sofa, his little pig-like eyes roving round the room.
"My name, madam, is the Reverend Prometheus Bolt."
"And why have you called upon me?"
Mr. Bolt faltered. He did not like this lady who pointed every question.
"An act of civility, my dear madam. I am staying a few days in this enchanting vicinity and hearing of your benevolent character was persuaded to pay my best respects."
"My benevolent character! You are collecting for a charity? You are proposing to hand me a tract?"
"No, indeed no. My visit is connected with this world and not the next. I was informed in the village that this house was to let."
"You were misinformed."
"Furnished—to let furnished. Yes." This was a happy thought and he followed it up closely. "I should consider myself indeed fortunate if you, dear lady, would conduct me round its various apartments."
"The house is not to let under any consideration."
"Dear, dear! How disappointing."
"So if that is your only object in calling——" Her hand went out toward the bell.
"I pray you will allow me to remain a moment and recover my breath.The heat of the walk, you know. I am not as young as I was."
"No one is," replied Mrs. Barraclough uncompromisingly.
"How very, very true," said Mr. Bolt with outward benevolence but inwardly with a powerful inclination toward violence. "Yes, very true, although it is bitter indeed to be taunted with lack of youth. In the words of the Gospel 'do unto others as you would be done by.'"
"In what particular part of the Gospel does that phrase occur?" demanded Mrs. Barraclough shrewdly.
But Alfred Bolt was not a man to be caught out in the first over.
"I can only recommend you a closer attention to the Book," he replied. "Search its pages yourself, dear lady, and treasures of gladness shall be yours."
It was a nimble evasion and he could not resist a smile of self-satisfaction, but to avoid further interrogation on Biblical derivations he hastened to lead the conversation into safer alleys and ones more relative to the object of his visit.
"I am informed in the village that you are the fortunate possessor of a son."
"I have a son," Mrs. Barraclough admitted.
"A priceless gift, dear lady. I should like to shake him by the hand."
"Why?"
Really this woman was too trying and the directness of the question for an instant deprived Mr. Bolt of his sense of character. Before he had time to collect his thoughts he had rapped out the reply:
"Needn't jump down a man's throat like that."
His effort to recover and mask this piece of startled irritability with a vague platitude did not deceive his audience in the smallest degree. Doubt became conviction in Mrs. Barraclough's mind. She did not know in what way this man was connected with her son's affairs but none the less she was certain he represented a positive barrier between Anthony and success. To denounce him as a spy might, however, do more harm than good, accordingly she took up the bell and rang it, with the words:
"My son is away and has been away for several weeks, nor is there any likelihood you will meet him when ultimately he returns." Then to the glowering Jane who had answered the summons of the bell; "Kindly show this gentleman out."
"Pray do not disturb yourself," said Mr. Bolt with dignity. "I can find my own way."
And with astonishing speed for a man of his build he seized the handle and threw open the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. The action was deliberate since he desired to find out who might possibly be concealed in the inner room and its advantages were immeasurable for at the very moment his back was turned Anthony Barraclough, dusty and spent, stumbled in through the French window.
Jane gave a short, stifled squeak and pointed and he was out again and ducking behind a rose bush before Bolt had time to turn and apologise for his mistake.
"Show this gentleman through the gate and down the road," said Mrs. Barraclough in a voice that did not betray her excitement by a single tremor.
"I thank you for your hospitality, dear lady," said the Reverend Prometheus, "and I trust I may have the pleasure of bettering our acquaintance."
As he bowed himself out he discreetly dropped his gloves behind a cushion on the sofa.
"This way, please," said Jane. "This way."
The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once again Barraclough slipped into the room. His clothes were white with dust, his eyes hollow and deep set, but around the corners of his mouth was just such a smile as any mother might hope to see.
"Bless your sweet bobbed head," he whispered, throwing an arm affectionately about her shoulders. "Though why in blazes you entertain well known crooks to tea gets me wondering."
"Oh, my dear, dear boy, wherever did you come from?" she cried, patting him all over to convince herself of his reality.
"Down the chimney, mother, like Santa Claus."
"But why and without a word?"
"Hadn't a notion I was coming," he replied dropping on to the sofa and spreading out his legs. "I was whacked to the wide and had to stop somewhere and get me breath."
The door was flung open and Flora and Jane burst in.
"I say, that was a near shave," gasped the latter. "Where did you spring from?"
"Somewhere t'other side of Plymouth. Keep your eye on the window,Flora. Don't want that old blackbird to get a view of me. Thanks!Fine. See him down the road, Jane?"
"You bet."
"It's damn bad luck him being here at all. When did he first show up?"
"Last night."
"There's been a mess-up somewhere and I was looking for a clean run home."
"Home, dear?"
"Um! Back to London. How's mother's old car going, Flora?"
"Tiptop."
"Good, I shall need it. I say, I apologise for not saying how-de-do but things have been moving today. Everyone feeling good? Fine. Lord, I'm tired." And he passed a hand tied with a bloodstained handkerchief across his brow.
Mrs. Barraclough was first to notice it and called for an explanation.
"Oh, that's all right—a scratch—bled a bit. Nothing to bother about. Flora, if you leave that window unguarded you're sacked. Jane, if you love me, a large and a small."
"But what is it all about?" Mrs. Barraclough implored after shaking her head at the thought of whiskey.
"Money, dear—money and a bit of paper I carry in this note case that is earnestly coveted by quite a number of people it doesn't belong to. When I asked for a large and a small, Jane, I was endeavouring to convey the idea that I was thirsty."
But Jane was reluctant to go and only consented to do so on a promise that no secrets should be revealed in her absence.
"Be a darling, mother dear, and fill me a pipe."
It was characteristic of Anthony Barraclough that the entire household revolved round him from the instant of appearance.
"Then there is something wrong with your hand," said the old lady filling the pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth, while Flora risked a month's notice by rushing forward with a lighted match. "I shall tie it up while you have your smoke."
Anthony's protests were unavailing when the ministering angel mood descended upon his mother. At such a time she was inexorable. She called upon Flora to fill the slop basin with warm water and provide scissors (always so elusive when needed) and naturally Flora, who was entirely absorbed in the adventurous side of the proceedings, could only find the rose cutters which were entirely useless.
"It's a bullet wound," Mrs. Barraclough declared. "You can't deceive me—it's a bullet wound."
"Well, p'raps it is, mother, but since it was never intended for my hand we needn't bother about it."
"You must have it bandaged and go to bed straight away."
"Bed!" He threw back his head and laughed. "It's likely."
"And you'll want a sling."
"Not for this David, mother. A sling would be a fat lot of use against the Goliaths I'm dealing with. Mother, I'm within a hundred and fifty miles of being one of the richest men in the world and, as far as I can see, they'll be the toughest miles I've ever covered in my life."
And suddenly from the window came Flora's cry of "Look out!"
Anthony did not waste time looking out but instead flung himself behind the upright piano which stood out from the wall. Nor was he a moment too soon for the massive form of Mr. Bolt was framed in the French windows. Mrs. Barraclough took three steps toward him as also did Flora, thus preventing a definite intrusion into the room.
"I beg your pardon—I do indeed beg your pardon," said Bolt in tones as rich as the fat of pork, "but I fancy—I rather imagine—I—yes, to be sure, left a pair of gloves on your sofa."
"If you had rung the bell, sir, your property would have been restored to you in the usual manner. I cannot——"
She stopped as her uninvited guest was sniffing the air suspiciously.
"Mrs. Barraclough," he observed, shaking his head sadly, "I fear I have caught you smoking."
Behind the piano Anthony was feverishly extinguishing his pipe with the ball of his thumb.
"I smoke all day," replied Mrs. Barraclough.
The door opened and Jane came in with an abnormally large whiskey and soda which she nearly dropped at the sight of the visitor.
"Oh! Mrs. Barraclough!" said Bolt, pointing an accusing finger.
But the old lady was equal to the moment.
"And drink," she said, seizing the glass and swallowing an immense gulp that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.
Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched hand.
"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.
"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would kindly leave by the way you came."
"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your hospitality."
Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of glass.
The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.
"Once again allow me to thank you for your hospitality," he said.
"Show this person out," said Mrs. Barraclough.
And under the escort of Jane and Flora he was peremptorily bustled off the premises.
"H'm," said Anthony, coming out from behind the piano. "That was a pity."
Mrs. Barraclough was almost in tears.
"Do you think he realised you were hidden there?"
"Vases don't tumble over by themselves, mother dear, and our friend is not a fool." He tapped his teeth with a thumb nail reflectively. "Yes—yes—yes. We must curtail his activities. Can't have the old viper sending messages. Settle down at the telephone, best of mothers."
"I do wish you would not address me as though I were a sitting hen," said Mrs. Barraclough, drawing up a chair to the writing table.
"The telephone, mother, and ask for the police station."
"But the policeman is sure to be out."
"Then talk to his missus."
"That would be impossible, dear, Mrs. Brassbound——"
But Anthony did not listen to the objection.
"Tell old Brassbound," said he, "to run in friend Skypilot if he gravitates near the post office."
Mrs. Barraclough picked up the receiver and asked for the police station and while waiting to be connected remarked weakly:
"There is no law to prevent people sending telegrams, dear."
"Then we must make a few to fit the occasion."
"Is that you, Mr. Brassbound?" said the old lady in answer to a voice on the wire. "It's Mrs. Barraclough speaking. I wonder if you would very kindly arrest a clergyman for me."
"Put a bit more sting in it, mother—ginger."
"Ginger," repeated Mrs. Barraclough into the mouthpiece. "No, no, I didn't mean that. He's grey and elderly."
"Say he pinched something," Anthony prompted.
Mrs. Barraclough nodded.
"I rather fear he has appropriated a cream jug. Yes. I thought perhaps he might send it off from the post office. Thank you. And how is your wife progressing? Yes, of course she is. Yes, I am coming down to see her this evening if I can get away. Goodbye."
"What's wrong with the policeman's missus?" demanded Anthony.
"As you're not a married man, Tony, I shall refuse to tell you," saidMrs. Barraclough in the manner of Queen Victoria.
"Going to see her?"
"I was going to take her this basket of roses and some vegetables, but as——"
"No, no, you take 'em and I'll go down to the village with you in the car and take it on. You won't mind walking home across the fields."
"Anthony," said Mrs. Barraclough seriously. "Is it very real danger you're in?"
"Pretty solid but don't you fret, I'm equal to it."
Flora and Jane came in from the garden.
"We've seen him down the road," they announced.
"Good. Now, look here, everyone, I've wasted a deuce of a lot of time when I ought to have been on the way. Here's the position of affairs. Flora, you're going to drive me to London."
"Right," said Flora with sparkling eyes.
"Jane! Still got that old service revolver I gave you?"
"Um."
"Keep it handy. Likely enough there'll be a couple of visitors here before long and you've got to detain 'em somehow."
"I'll keep 'em till they grow roots," said Jane stoutly.
"It's a damn shame, dragging you into all this, but that bullet did me in as a driver. It's no joke shoving a motor bike along with a bullet through your hand."
"But how did you get the wound, dear?"
As hurriedly as possible he outlined the day's happenings from the moment of landing at Polperro.
"Who are these men?" Flora demanded.
"Couple of spies belonging to a crowd that tried to prevent me leavingLondon three weeks ago."
"But what do they want?"
Anthony held up the morocco letter case and restored it to his pocket.
"Just this. I've given 'em a pretty good lead all day—played hare and hounds all over Dartmoor best part of the morning but somehow I don't believe I've shaken 'em off."
"Where did you leave the bike?"
"Couple of miles back on the main road. Shoved her in a thicket. Front tyre burst and that settled it. There's a bare hope they may have been kidded into believing I'd gone straight on but it's slender enough. Comberstone knows I have a home hereabouts and they're pretty certain to have watched my tracks on the road. Mother's old bus is going well you say?"
"I can whack her up to about a thirty average," said Flora.
"Thirty, and we've a hundred and fifty to go. Yes, yes—ought to be inTown by eleven."
"Easy."
"Then I'll just swallow a snack of grub and push off straight away.Get your engine started."
"There's a lovely pie in the larder, dear," said Mrs. Barraclough."Just the sort you like best. Jane! My motor cloak and bonnet."
She took Anthony's hand and they hurried kitchenward together.
Flora and Jane looked at one another, their eyes adance with excitement.
"Oh, isn't this gorgeous," said Jane.
"Simply topping," echoed Flora.
"You lucky beast to be going up with him."
"I like that, when you've got a shooting programme."
"Oh, well, I suppose the honours are divided. Good luck."
"Same to you."
They parted with a wave of the hand, Jane following her mistress and Flora into the garden at a run. But she had scarcely reached the path when two men came round the corner of the house and bore down upon her.
Harrison Smith was too good a strategist to announce his arrival by driving up to the front door. He had left the Ford at the end of the lane and entered the grounds by way of the kitchen garden. At the sight of Flora he bowed very politely, greeting her with a charming smile and an allusion to the clemency of the evening. It is possible these social amenities might have carried some weight but for the appearance of Freddie Dirk, whose heavy jowl, grimed with dust and perspiration, was not consistent with the idea of an afternoon caller. Flora fell back a pace into the room, wondering fearfully what course she should pursue.
"Don't be frightened, my girl, don't be frightened," Harrison Smith agreeably beseeched.
"Who are you? I don't know you," said Flora.
"We're friends of your master's, of course."
"That's it," said Dirk, huskily. "Pals of 'is, see!"
The tone was hardly convincing.
"My master is away, and has been away for some weeks."
"Yes, yes, yes, to be sure. But he's come back."
"No," said Flora.
"Look 'ere, girl,"—Dirk's fat, short-fingered paw fell on her shoulders—"we ain't soft—do you get me? We knows what we're torkin' abaht. Mister Barraclough is 'ere and the sooner——"
"Tut, tut, tut," Harrison Smith interrupted. "Don't talk like that, Dirk—you're scaring the girl. Now listen to me. Your Master has enemies, we're his friends. It is of the utmost importance we should see him at once." He moved away and opened the door of Mrs. Barraclough's bedroom. "As a matter of fact his life depends upon it."
"Yus—'is life," Dirk echoed.
"I tell you my master is not here."
"Isn't 'e—isn't 'e." Dirk's two hands fastened on Flora's wrist and twisted the flesh in contrary directions, a domestic form of torture known to the initiated as the Burning Bracelet.
"Let go, you brute—let go," she cried, and with her free hand caught him a full swinging slap across the face.
What particular line Dirk's resentment would have taken is unknown, for Harrison Smith came quickly between them with a muttered order and at the same time the door opened and Jane ran in. It speaks well for her courage that she did not cry out or betray alarm.
"Jane," gasped Flora very quickly, "these men want to see master—I've told them he isn't here——"
"Quiet you," said Dirk threateningly, while Harrison Smith descended on the new arrival under a coverlet of smiles.
"Come along, my dear," he said, "you're a sensible looking girl. Now where's Mister Barraclough, eh?"
For a second Jane seemed lost in consideration, then shook her head stupidly and replied in a rich brogue:
"Maister Bar'clough—doan't know 'un—never clapt eyes on 'un. 'Tis on'y larst week I took sarvice 'ere t'oblige."
"Have you seen anyone strange about the premises today?"
"Noa."
"A man—tall—broad shouldered—wearing a blue suit and cap."
"Oh 'im," said Jane, her face lighting up with a semblance of intelligence. "I did see some un 'bout 'arf an hour ago, 'twas."
"Yes, yes. Go on."
"Come out of tool shed at garden end and kept low by the 'edge."
"Did he enter the house?"
"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."
"Damn! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.
"Which direction?"
"Away from village 'twas."
Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward theFrench windows.
"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way—it's quicker."
The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.
"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"—and as the order was obeyed—"Well met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."