“Have printed your picture. Cannot understand the murder. Were you trying take photo-play? Come and see me. Silenski House, Wardour Street.”
“Have printed your picture. Cannot understand the murder. Were you trying take photo-play? Come and see me. Silenski House, Wardour Street.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“It is Greek to me,” said Dick. “ ‘Cannot understand murder’—has your father been trying to take photo-plays?”
“No, dear, I’m sure he hasn’t; he would have told me.”
“What photographs did your father take?”
“It was a picture of trout,” she said, gathering her scattered thoughts; “but he took another picture—in his sleep. He was in the country waiting for a badger, and dozed. He must have pressed the starter; he thought that picture was a failure. It can’t be the trout; it doesn’t mention the trout; it must be the other.”
“We will go to Wardour Street.”
It was Elk who spoke so definitely, Elk who called a cab and hustled the two people into it. When they arrived at Wardour Street, Mr. Silenski was out at lunch, and nobody knew anything whatever about the film, or had authority to show it.
For an hour and a half they waited, fuming, in that dingy office, whilst messengers went in search of Silenski. He arrived at last, a polite and pleasant little Hebrew, who was all apologies, though no apology was called for, since he had not expected his visitors.
“Yes, it is a curious picture,” he said. “Your father, miss, is a very good amateur; in fact, he’s a professional now; and if it is true that he can get these Zoo photographs, he ought to be in the first rank of nature photographers.”
They followed him up a flight of stairs into a big room across which were row upon row of chairs. Facing them as they sat was a small white screen, and behind them an iron partition with two square holes.
“This is our theatre,” he explained. “You’ve no idea whether your father is trying to take motion pictures—I mean photo-plays? If he is, then this scene was pretty well acted, but I can’t understand why he did it. It’s labelled ‘Trout in a Pond’ or something of the sort, but there are no trout here, and there is no pond either!”
There was a click, and the room went black; and then there was shown on the screen a picture which showed in the foreground a stretch of grey, sandy soil, and the dark opening of a burrow, out of which peeped a queer-looking animal.
“That’s a badger,” explained Mr. Silenski. “It looked very promising up to there, and then I don’t know what he did. You’ll see he changed the elevation of the camera.”
As he spoke, the picture jerked round a little to the right, as though it had been pulled violently. And they were looking upon two men, obviously tramps. One was sitting with his head on his hands, the other, close by him, was pouring out whisky into a container.
“That’s Lew Brady,” whispered Elk fiercely, and at that moment the other man looked up, and Ella Bennett uttered a cry.
“It is Ray! Oh, Dick, it is Ray!”
There was no question of it. The light beard he wore melted into the shadows which the strong sunlight cast. They saw Brady offer him a drink, saw him toss it down and throw the cup back to the man; watched him as his arms stretched in a yawn; and then saw him curl up to sleep, lie back, and Lew Brady standing over him. The prostrate figure turned on to its face, and Lew, stooping, put something in his pocket. They caught the reflection of glass.
“The flask,” said Elk.
And then the figure standing in the centre of the picture spun round. There walked toward him a man. His face was invisible. Never once during that period did he turn his face to that eager audience.
They saw his arm go up quickly, saw the flash of the two shots, watched breathless, spellbound, horrified, the tragedy that followed.
The man stooped and placed the pistol by the side of the sleeping Ray, and then, as he turned, the screen went white.
“That’s the end of the picture,” said Mr. Silenski. “And what it means, heaven knows.”
“He’s innocent! Dick, he’s innocent!” the girl cried wildly. “Don’t you see, it was not he who fired?”
She was half-mad with grief and terror, and Dick caught her firmly by the shoulders, the dumbfounded Silenski gaping at the scene.
“You are going back to my house and you will read! Do you hear, Ella? You’re to do nothing until you hear from me. You are not to go out; you are to sit andread! I don’t care what you read—the Bible, the Police News, anything you like. But you must not think of this business. Elk and I will do all that is possible.”
She mastered her wild terror and tried to smile.
“I know you will,” she said between her chattering teeth. “Get me to your house, please.”
He left Elk to go to Fleet Street to collect every scrap of information about the murder he could from the newspaper offices, and brought the girl back to Harley Terrace. As he got out of the cab, he saw a man waiting on the steps. It was Joshua Broad. One glance at his face told Dick that he knew of the murder, and he guessed the source.
He waited in the hall until Dick had put the girl in the study, and had collected every illustrated newspaper, every book he could find.
“Lola told me of this business.”
“I guessed so,” said Dick. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I knew these two men started out in the disguise of tramps,” said Broad, “but I understood they were going north. This is Frog work—why?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do,” Dick said suddenly. “The Frog came to Miss Bennett last night and asked her to marry him, promising that he would save her brother if she agreed. But it can hardly be that he planned this diabolical trick to that end.”
“To no other end,” said Broad coolly. “You don’t know Frog, Gordon! The man is a strategist—probably the greatest strategist in the world. Can I do anything?”
“I would ask you to stay and keep Miss Bennett amused——” Dick began.
“I think you might do worse,” said the American quietly.
Ella looked up with a look of pain as the visitor entered the room. She felt that she could not endure the presence of a stranger at this moment, that she would break under any new strain, and she glanced at Dick imploringly.
“If you don’t want me to stay, Miss Bennett,” smiled Broad, “well, I’ll go just as soon as you tell me. But I’ve one piece of information to pass to you, and it is this: that your brother will not die.”
His eyes met Dick Gordon’s, and the Prosecutor bit his lip to restrain the cry that came involuntarily.
“Why?” she asked eagerly, but neither of the men could tell her.
Dick telephoned to the garage for his car, the very machine that Ray Bennett had driven the first day they had met. His first call was at the office of the Public Prosecutor, and to him he stated the facts.
“It is a most remarkable story, and I can do nothing, of course. You’d better see the Secretary of State at once, Gordon.”
“Is the House of Commons sitting, sir?”
“No—I’ve an idea that the Secretary, who is the only man that can do anything for you—is out of town. He may be on the Continent. I’m not sure. There was a conference at San Remo last week, and I’ve a dim notion that he went there.”
Dick’s heart almost stood still.
“Is there nobody else at the Home Office who could help?”
“There is the Under Secretary: you’d better see him.”
The Public Prosecutor’s Department was housed in the Home Office building, and Dick went straight away in search of the responsible official. The permanent secretary, to whom he explained the circumstances, shook his head.
“I’m afraid we can do nothing now, Gordon,” he said, “and the Secretary of State is in the country and very ill.”
“Where is the Under Secretary?” asked Dick desperately.
“He’s at San Remo.”
“How far out of town is Mr. Whitby’s house?”
The official considered.
“About thirty miles—this side of Tunbridge Wells,” and Dick wrote the address on a slip of paper.
Half an hour later, a long yellow Rolls was flying across Westminster Bridge, threading the traffic with a recklessness which brought the hearts of hardened chauffeurs to their mouths; and forty minutes after he had left Whitehall, Dick was speeding up an elm-bordered avenue to the home of the Secretary of State.
The butler who met him could give him no encouragement.
“I’m afraid Mr. Whitby cannot see you, sir. He has a very bad attack of gout, and the doctors have told him that he mustn’t touch any kind of business whatever.”
“This is a matter of life and death,” said Dick, “and I must see him. Or, failing him, I must see the King.”
This message, conveyed to the invalid, produced an invitation to walk upstairs.
“What is it, sir?” asked the Minister sharply as Dick came in. “I cannot possibly attend to any business whatever. I’m suffering the tortures of the damned with this infernal foot of mine. Now tell me, what is it?”
Quickly Gordon related his discovery.
“An astounding story,” said the Minister, and winced. “Where is the picture?”
“In London, sir.”
“I can’t come to London: it is humanly impossible. Can’t you get somebody at the Home Office to certify this? When is this man to be hanged?”
“To-morrow morning, sir, at eight o’clock.”
The Secretary of State considered, rubbing his chin irritably.
“I should be no man if I refused to see this damned picture,” he said, and Dick made allowance for his language as he rubbed his suffering limb. “But I can’t go to town unless you get me an ambulance. You had better ’phone a garage in London to send a car down, or, better still, get one from the local hospital.”
Everything seemed to be conspiring against him, for the local hospital’s ambulance was under repair, but at last Dick put through a message to town, with the promise that an ambulance would be on its way in ten minutes.
“An extraordinary story, a perfectly amazing story! And of course, I can grant you a respite. Or, if I’m convinced of the truth of this astounding romance, we could get the King to-night; I could even promise you a reprieve. But my death will lie at your door if I catch cold.”
Two hours passed before the ambulance came. The chauffeur had had to change his tyres twice on the journey. Very gingerly, accompanied by furious imprecations from the Cabinet Minister, his stretcher was lifted into the ambulance.
To Dick the journey seemed interminable. He had telephoned through to Silenski, asking him to keep his office open until his arrival. It was eight o’clock by the time the Minister was assisted up to the theatre, and the picture was thrown upon the screen.
Mr. Whitby watched the drama with the keenest interest, and when it was finished he drew a long breath.
“That’s all right so far as it goes,” he said, “but how do I know this hasn’t been play-acted in order to get this man a reprieve? And how am I to be sure that this wretched trampisyour man?”
“I can assure you of that, sir,” said Elk. “I got the photograph up from Gloucester this afternoon.”
He produced from his pocket-book two photographs, one in profile and one full-face, and put them on the table before the Minister.
“Show the picture again,” he ordered, and again they watched the presentation of the tragedy. “But how on earth did the man manage to take this picture?”
“I’ve since discovered, sir, that he was in the neighbourhood on that very day. He went out to get a photograph of a badger—I know this, sir, because Mr. Silenski has given me all the information in his power.”
Mr. Whitby looked up at Dick.
“You’re in the Public Prosecutor’s Department? I remember you very well, Captain Gordon. I must take your word. This is not a matter for respite, but for reprieve, until the whole of the circumstances are investigated.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, wiping his streaming forehead.
“You’d better take me along to the Home Office,” grumbled the great man. “To-morrow I shall be cursing your name and memory, though I must confess that I’m feeling better for the drive. I want that picture.”
They had to wait until the picture was replaced in its box, and then Dick Gordon and Elk assisted the Secretary of State to the waiting ambulance.
At a quarter-past eight, a reprieve, ready for the Royal counter-signature, was in Dick’s hand, and the miracle, which Mr. Whitby had not dared expect, had happened. He was able, with the aid of a stick, to hobble to a car. Before the great Palace, streams of carriages and motor-cars were passing. It was the night of the first ball of the season, and the hall of the Palace was a brilliant sight. The glitter of women’s jewels, the scarlet, blue and green of diplomatic uniforms, the flash of innumerable Orders, no less than the organization of this gorgeous gathering, interested Dick as he stood, a strangely contrasting figure, watching the pageant pass him.
The Minister had disappeared into an ante-room and presently came back and crooked his finger; Dick followed him down a red-carpeted passage past white-haired footmen in scarlet and gold, until they came to a door, before which another footman stood. A whispered word, the footman knocked, and a voice bade them enter. The servant opened the door and they went in.
The man who was sitting at the table rose. He wore the scarlet uniform of a general; across his breast was the blue ribbon of the Garter. There was in his eyes a kindliness and humanity which Dick had not imagined he would find.
“Will you be seated? Now please tell me the story as quickly as you can, because I have an appointment elsewhere, and punctuality is the politeness of princes,” he smiled.
He listened attentively, stopping Gordon now and again to ask a question. When Dick had finished, he took up a pen and wrote a word in a bold, boyish hand, blotted it punctiliously and handed it to the Secretary of State.
“There is your reprieve. I am very glad,” he said, and Dick, bowing over the extended hand, felt the music of triumph in his soul, forgot for the moment the terrible danger in which this boy had stood; and forgot, too, the most important factor of all—the Frog, still vigilant, still vengeful, still powerful!
When he got back to the Home Office and had taken farewell, with a very earnest expression of gratitude, of the irascible, but kindly Minister, Dick flew up the stairs to his own office and seized the telephone.
“Put me through to Gloucester 8585 Official,” he said, and waited for the long-distance signal.
It came after a few minutes.
“Sorry, sir, no call through to Gloucester. Line out of order. Trunk wires cut.”
Dick put down the ’phone slowly. Then it was that he remembered that the Frog still lived.
CHAPTER XXXV
WHEN Elk came up to the Prosecutor’s room, Dick was sitting at the table, writing telegrams. They were each addressed to the Governor of Gloucester Prison, and contained a brief intimation that a reprieve for James Carter was on its way. Each was marked viâ a different route.
“What’s the idea?” said Elk.
“The ’phone to Gloucester is out of order,” said Dick, and Elk bit his lip thoughtfully.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then if the ’phone’s out of order——”
“I don’t want to think that,” said Dick.
Elk took up the instrument.
“Give me the Central Telegraph Office, miss,” he said. “I want to speak to the Chief Clerk. . . . Yes, Inspector Elk, C.I.D.”
After a pause, he announced himself again.
“We’re putting some wires through to Gloucester. I suppose the lines are all right?”
His face did not move a muscle while he listened, then:
“I see,” he said. “Any roundabout route we can get? What’s the nearest town open?” A wait. “Is that so? Thank you.”
He put down the instrument.
“All wires to Gloucester are cut. The trunk wire has been cut in three places; the connection with Birmingham, which runs in an earthenware pipe underground, has been blown up, also in three places.” Dick’s eyes narrowed.
“Try the Radio Company,” he said. “They’ve got a station at Devizes, and another one somewhere near Cheltenham, and they could send on a message.”
Again Elk applied himself to the telephone.
“Is that the Radio Station? Inspector Elk, Headquarters Police, speaking. I want to get a message through to Gloucester, to Gloucester Prison, viâ—eh? . . . But I thought you’d overcome that difficulty. How long has it been jammed? . . . Thank you,” he said, and put down the telephone for the second time.
“There’s a jam,” he said. “No messages are getting through. The radio people say that somebody in this country has got a secret apparatus which was used by the Germans during the war, and that when the jam is on, it is impossible to get anything through.”
Dick looked at his watch. It was now half-past nine.
“You can catch the ten-five for Gloucester, Elk, but somehow I don’t think it will get through.”
“As a telephone expert,” said Elk, as he patiently applied himself to the instrument, “I have many of the qualities that make, so to speak, for greatness. Hullo! Get me Great Western, please. Great Western Stationmaster. . . . I have a perfect voice, a tremendous amount of patience, and a faith in my fellow-man, and—Hullo! Is that you, Stationmaster? . . . Inspector Elk. I told you that before—no, it was somebody else. Inspector Elk, C.I.D. Is there any trouble on your road to-night?” . . . A longer pause this time. “Glory be!” said Elk unemotionally. “Any chance of getting through? . . . None whatever? What time will you have trains running? . . . Thank you.”
He turned to Dick.
“Three culverts and a bridge down at Swindon, blown at seven o’clock; two men in custody; one man dead, shot by rail guard. Two culverts down at Reading; the metals blown up at Slough. I won’t trouble to call up the other roads, because—well, the Frog’s thorough.”
Dick Gordon opened a cupboard and took out a leather coat and a soft leather helmet. In his drawer he found two ugly-looking Browning pistols and examined their magazines before he slipped them into his pocket. Then he selected half-a-dozen cigars, and packed them carefully in the breast pocket of the coat.
“You’re not going alone, Gordon?” asked Elk sternly. Dick nodded.
“I’m going alone,” he said. “If I don’t get through, you follow. Send a police car after me and tell them to drive carefully. I don’t think they’ll stop me this side of Newbury,” he said. “I can make that before the light goes. Tell Miss Bennett that the reprieve is signed, and that I am on my way.”
Elk said nothing, but followed his chief into the street, and stood by him with the policeman who had been left in charge of the car, while Dick made a careful scrutiny of the tyres and petrol tank.
So Dick Gordon took the Bath road; and the party of gunmen that waited at the two aerodromes of London to shoot him down if he attempted to leave by the aerial route, waited in vain. He avoided the direct road to Reading, and was taking the longer way round. He came into Newbury at eleven o’clock, and learnt of more dynamited culverts. The town was full of it. Two laden trains were held up on the down line, and their passengers thronged the old-fashioned streets of the town. OutsideThe Chequershe spoke to the local inspector of police. Beyond the outrages they had heard nothing, and apparently the road was in good order, for a car had come through from Swindon only ten minutes before Dick arrived.
“You’re safe as far as Swindon, anyway,” said the inspector. “The countryside has been swarming with tramps lately, but my mounted patrols, that have just come in, have seen none on the roads.”
A thought struck Dick, and he drove the inspector round to the police-station and went inside with him.
“I want an envelope and some official paper,” he said, and, sitting down at the desk, he made a rough copy of the reprieve with its quaint terminology, sealed the envelope with wax and put it into his pocket. Then he took the real reprieve, and, taking off his shoe and sock, put it between his bare foot and his sock. Replacing his shoe, he jumped on to the car and started his cautious way toward Didcot. Both his glare lamps were on, and the road before him was as light as day. Nevertheless, he went at half speed, one of his Brownings on the cushion beside him.
Against the afterglow of the sunset, a faint, pale light which is the glory of late summer, he saw three inverted V’s and knew they were the ends of a building, possibly an aerodrome. And then he remembered that Elk had told him of the chemical factory. Probably this was the place, and he drove with greater caution. He had turned the bend, when, ahead of him, he saw three red lights stretched across the road, and in the light of the head-lamps stood a policeman. He slowed the machine and stopped within a few yards of the officer.
“You can’t go this way, sir. The road’s up.”
“How long has it been up?” asked Dick.
“It’s been blown up, sir, about twenty minutes ago,” was the reply. “There’s a side road a mile back, which will bring you to the other side of the railway lines. You can back in here.” He indicated a gateway evidently leading to the factory. Dick pulled back his lever to the reverse, and sent the Rolls spinning backward into the opening. His hand was reaching to change the direction, when the policeman, who had walked to the side of the car, struck at him.
Gordon’s head was bent. He was incapable of resistance. Only the helmet he wore saved him from death. He saw nothing, only suddenly the world went black. Scarcely had the blow been struck when half-a-dozen men came from the shadows. Somebody jumped into the driver’s seat, and, flinging out the limp figure of its owner, brought the car still further backward, and switched off the lights. Another of the party removed the red lamps. The policeman bent over the prostrate figure of Dick Gordon.
“I thought I’d settled him,” he said, disappointed.
“Well, settle him now,” said somebody in the darkness, but evidently the assailant changed his mind.
“Hagn will want him,” he said. “Lift him up.”
They carried the inanimate figure over the rough ground, through a sliding door, into a big, ill-lit factory hall, bare of machinery. At the far end was a brick partition forming an office, and into this he was carried and flung on the floor.
“Here’s your man, Hagn,” growled the policeman. “I think he’s through.”
Hagn got up from his table and walked across to where Dick Gordon lay.
“I don’t think there’s much wrong with him,” he said. “You couldn’t kill a man through that helmet, anyway. Take it off.”
They took the leather helmet from the head of the unconscious man, and Hagn made a brief inspection.
“No, he’s all right,” he said. “Throw some water over him. Wait; you’d better search him first. Those cigars,” he said, pointing to the brown cylinders that protruded from his breast pocket, “I want.”
The first thing found was the blue envelope, and this Hagn tore open and read.
“It seems all right,” he said, and locked it away in the roll-top desk at which he was sitting when Dick had been brought in. “Now give him the water!”
Dick came to his senses with a throbbing head and a feeling of resentment against the consciousness which was being forced upon him. He sat up, rubbing his face like a man roused from a heavy sleep, screwed up his eyes in the face of the bright light, and unsteadily stumbled to his feet, looking around from one to the other of the grinning faces.
“Oh!” he said at last. “I seem to have struck it. Who hit me?”
“We’ll give you his card presently,” sneered Hagn. “Where are you off to at this time of night?”
“I’m going to Gloucester,” said Dick.
“Like hell you are!” scoffed Hagn. “Put him upstairs, boys.”
Leading up from the office was a flight of unpainted pine stairs, and up this he was partly pushed and partly dragged. The room above had been used in war time as an additional supervisor’s office. It had a large window, commanding a view of the whole of the floor space. The window was now thick with grime, and the floor littered with rubbish which the present occupants had not thought it worth while to move.
“Search him again, and make sure he hasn’t any gun on him. And take away his boots,” said Hagn.
A small carbon filament lamp cast a sickly yellow light upon the sinister group that surrounded Dick Gordon. He had time to take his bearings. The window he had seen, and escape that way was impossible; the ceiling was covered with matchboards that had once been varnished. There was no other way out, save down the steps.
“You’ve got to stay here for a day or two, Gordon, but perhaps, if the Government will give us Balder, you’ll get away with your life. If they don’t, then it’ll be a case of ‘good-night, nurse!’ ”
CHAPTER XXXVI
DICK GORDON knew that any discussion with his captors was a waste of breath, and that repartee was profitless. His head was aching, but no sooner was he left alone than he gave himself a treatment which an osteopath had taught him. He put his chin on his breast, and his two open hands behind his neck, the finger-tips pressing hard, then he slowly raised his head (it was an agony to do so), bringing his fingers down over the jugular. Three times repeated, his head was comparatively clear.
The door was of thin wood and could easily be forced, but the room below was filled with men. Presently the light below went out, and the place was in darkness. He guessed that it was because Hagn did not wish the light to be seen from the road; though it was unlikely that there would come any inquiries, he had taken effective steps to deal with the police car which he knew would follow.
They had not taken his matches away, and Dick struck one and looked round. Standing before a fireplace filled with an indescribable litter of half-burnt papers and dust, was a steel plate, with holes for rivets, evidently part of a tank which had not been assembled. There was a heavy switch on the wall, and Dick turned it, hoping that it controlled the light; but apparently that was on the same circuit as the light below. He struck another match and followed the casing of the switch. By and by he saw a thick black cable running in the angle of the wall and the ceiling. It terminated abruptly on the right of the fireplace; and from the marks on the floor, Dick guessed that at some time or other there had been an experimental welding plant housed there. He turned the switch again and sat down to consider what would be the best thing to do. He could hear the murmur of voices below, and, lying on the floor, put his ear to the trap, which he cleared with a piece of wire he found in the fireplace. Hagn seemed to do most of the talking.
“If we blow up the road between here and Newbury, they’ll smell a rat,” he said.
“It’s a stupid idea you put forward, Hagn. What are you going to do with the chap upstairs?”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting to hear from Frog. Perhaps the Frog will want him killed.”
“He’d be a good man to hold for Balder, though, if Frog thought it was worth while.”
Towards five o’clock, Hagn, who had been out of the office, came back.
“Frog says he’s got to die,” he said in a low voice.
* * * * * *
Two people sat in Dick Gordon’s study. The hour was four o’clock in the morning. Elk had gone, for the twentieth time, to Headquarters, and for the twentieth time was on his way back. Ella Bennett had tried desperately hard to carry out Dick’s instructions, and turned page after page determinedly, but had read and yet had seen nothing. With a deep sigh she put down the book and clasped her hands, her eyes fixed upon the clock.
“Do you think he will get to Gloucester?” she asked.
“I certainly do,” said Broad confidently. “That young man will get anywhere. He is the right kind and the right type, and nothing is going to hold him.”
She picked up the book but did not look at its printed page.
“What happened to the police cars? Mr. Elk was telling me a lot about them last night,” she said. “I haven’t heard since.”
Joshua Broad licked his dry lips.
“Oh, they got through all right,” he said vaguely.
He did not tell her that two police cars had been ditched between Newbury and Reading, the cars smashed and three men injured by a mine which had been sprung under them. Nor did he give her the news, that had arrived by motor-cyclist from Swindon, that Dick’s car had not been seen.
“They are dreadful people, dreadful!” She shivered. “How did they come into existence, Mr. Broad?”
Broad was smoking (at her request) a long, thin cigar, and he puffed for a long time before he spoke.
“I guess I’m the father of the Frogs,” he said to her amazement.
“You!”
He nodded.
“I didn’t know I was producing this outfit, but there it is.” How, he did not seem disposed to explain at that moment.
Soon he heard the whirr of the bell, and thinking that Elk had perhaps forgotten the key, he rose, and, going along the passage, opened the door. It was not Elk.
“Forgive me for calling. Is that Mr. Broad?” The visitor peered forward in the darkness.
“I’m Broad all right. You’re Mr. Johnson, aren’t you? Come right in, Mr. Johnson.”
He closed the door behind him and turned on the light. The stout man was in a state of pitiable agitation.
“I was up late last night,” he said, “and my servant brought me an early copy of thePost Herald.
“So you know, eh?”
“It’s terrible, terrible! I can’t believe it!”
He took a crumpled paper from his pocket and looked at the stop-press space as though to reassure himself.
“I didn’t know it was in the paper.”
Johnson handed the newspaper to the American.
“Yes, they’ve got it. I suppose old man Whitby must have given away the story.”
“I think it came from the picture man, Silenski. Is it true that Ray is under sentence of death?”
Broad nodded.
“How dreadful!” said Johnson in a hushed voice. “Thank God they’ve found it out in time! Mr. Broad,” he said earnestly, “I hope you will tell Ella Bennett that she can rely on me for every penny I possess to establish her brother’s innocence. I suppose there will be a respite and a new trial? If there is, the very best lawyers must be employed.”
“She’s here. Won’t you come in and see her?”
“Here?” Johnson’s jaw dropped. “I had no idea,” he stammered.
“Come in.”
Broad returned to the girl.
“Here is a friend of yours who has turned up—Mr. Johnson.”
The philosopher crossed the room with quick, nervous strides, and held out both his hands to the girl.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Bennett,” he said, “so very, very sorry! It must be dreadful for you, dreadful! Can I do anything?”
She shook her head, tears of gratitude in her eyes.
“It is very sweet of you, Mr. Johnson. You’ve done so much for Ray, and Inspector Elk was telling me that you had offered him a position in your office.”
Johnson shook his head.
“It is nothing. I’m very fond of Ray, and he really has splendid capabilities. Once we get him out of this mess, I’ll put him on his feet again. Your father doesn’t know? Thank God for that!”
“I wish this news hadn’t got into the papers,” she said, when he told her how he had learnt of the happening.
“Silenski, of course,” said Broad. “A motion picture publicity man would use his own funeral to get a free par. How are you feeling in your new position, Johnson?” he asked, to distract the girl’s mind from the tragic thoughts which were oppressing her.
Johnson smiled.
“I’m bewildered. I can’t understand why poor Mr. Maitland did this. But I had my first Frog warning to-day; I feel almost important,” he said.
From a worn pocket-case he extracted a sheet of paper. It contained only three words;
“You are next!”
“You are next!”
and bore the familiar sign manual of the Frog.
“I don’t know what harm I have done to these people, but I presume that it is something fairly bad, for within ten minutes of getting this note, the porter brought me my afternoon tea. I took one sip and it tasted so bitter that I washed my mouth out with a disinfectant.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday,” said Johnson. “This morning I had the analysis—I had the tea bottled and sent off at once to an analytical chemist. It contained enough hydrocyanic acid to kill a hundred people. The chemist cannot understand how I could have taken the sip I did without very serious consequences. I am going to put the matter in the hands of the police to-day.”
The front door opened, and Elk came in.
“What is the news?” asked the girl eagerly, rising to meet him.
“Fine!” said Elk. “You needn’t worry at all, Miss Bennett. That Gordon man can certainly move. I guess he’s in Gloucester by now, sleeping in the best bed in the city.”
“But do youknowhe’s in Gloucester?” she asked stubbornly.
“I’ve had no exact news, but I can tell you this, that we’ve had no bad news,” said Elk; “and when there’s no news, you can bet that things are going according to schedule.”
“How did you hear about it, Johnson?”
The new millionaire explained.
“I ought to have pulled in Silenski and his operator,” said Elk thoughtfully. “These motion picture men lack reticence. And how does it feel to be rich, Johnson?” he asked.
“Mr. Johnson doesn’t think it feels too good,” said Broad. “He has attracted the attention of old man Frog.”
Elk examined the warning carefully.
“When did this come?”
“I found it on my desk yesterday morning,” said Johnson, and told him of the tea incident. “Do you think, Mr. Elk, you will ever put your hand on the Frog?”
“I’m as certain as that I’m standing here, that Frog will go the way——” Elk checked himself, and fortunately the girl was not listening.
It was getting light when Johnson left, and Elk walked with him to the door and watched him passing down the deserted street.
“There’s a lot about that boy I like,” he said; “and he’s certainly fortunate. Why the old man didn’t leave his money to that baby of his——”
“Did you ever find the baby?” interrupted Broad.
“No, sir, there was no sign of that innocent child in the house. That’s another Frog mystery to be cleared up.”
Johnson had reached the corner, and they saw him crossing the road, when a man came out of the shadow to meet him. There was a brief parley, and then Elk saw the flash of a pistol, and heard a shot. Johnson staggered back, and his opponent, turning, fled. In a second Elk was flying along the street. Apparently the philosopher was not hurt, though he seemed shaken.
The inspector ran round the corner, but the assassin had disappeared. He returned to the philosopher, to find him sitting on the edge of the pavement, and at first he thought he had been wounded.
“No, I think I just had a shock,” gasped Johnson. “I was quite unprepared for that method of attack.”
“What happened?” asked Elk.
“I can hardly realize,” said the other, who appeared dazed. “I was crossing the road when a man came up and asked me if my name was Johnson; then, before I knew what had happened, he had fired.”
His coat was singed by the flame of the shot, but the bullet must have gone wide. Later in the day, Elk found it embedded in the brickwork of a house.
“No, no, I won’t come back,” said Johnson. “I don’t suppose they’ll repeat the attempt.”
By this time one of the two detectives who had been guarding Harley Terrace had come up, and under his escort Johnson was sent home.
“They’re certainly the busiest little fellows,” said Elk, shaking his head. “You’d think they’d be satisfied with the work they were doing at Gloucester, without running sidelines.”
Joshua Broad was silent until they were going up the steps of the house.
“When you know as much about the Frog as I know, you’ll be surprised at nothing,” he said, and did not add to this cryptic remark.
Six o’clock came, and there was no further news from the west. Seven o’clock, and the girl’s condition became pitiable. She had borne herself throughout the night with a courage that excited the admiration of the men; but now, as the hour was drawing close, she seemed on the verge of collapse. At half-past seven the telephone bell rang, and Elk answered.
It was the Chief of Police at Newbury speaking.
“Captain Gordon left Didcot an hour ago,” was the message.
“Didcot!” gasped Elk in consternation. He looked at the clock. “An hour ago—and he had to make Gloucester in sixty minutes!”
The girl, who had been in the dining-room trying to take coffee which Gordon’s servant had prepared, came into the study, and Elk dared not continue the conversation.
“All right,” he said loudly, and smashed down the receiver.
“What is the news, Mr. Elk?” The girl’s voice was a wail.
“The news,” said Elk, twisting his face into a smile, “is fine!”
“What do they say?” she persisted.
“Oh, them?” said Elk, looking at the telephone. “That was a friend of mine, asking me if I’d dine with him to-night.”
She went back to the dining-room, only half-satisfied, and Elk called the American to him.
“Go and get a doctor,” he said in a low voice, “and tell him to bring something that’ll put this young lady to sleep for twelve hours.”
“Why?” asked Broad. “Is the news bad?”
Elk nodded.
“There isn’t a chance of saving this boy—not the ghost of a chance!” he said.