The Amazing Partnership E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

E. Phillips Oppenheim wrote most famously of secret agents and duplicitous diplomats, secret treaties and international conspiracies, moonlit Riviera casinos, Swiss hotel suites, perilous yacht trips, and glamorous trans-European express trains. Known in his time as „the Prince of Storytellers,” Oppenheim, like the brand names of today’s best seller lists, offered readers in the first half of the 20th century a steady, predictable, and entertaining supply of pop fiction. „The Amazing Partnership” is one of E. Phillips Oppenheim’s most intriguing stories. This story deals with a young man and a young woman who make an informal partnership in criminal investigation.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. PRYDE’S FIRST COMMISSION

CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERIOUS RESCUE AT DOVER

CHAPTER III. THE MYSTERIOUS IDOL

CHAPTER IV. THE HUMAN FOUR

CHAPTER V. THE UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY OF MRS. DELAMOIR

CHAPTER VI. A NEW DEPARTURE

CHAPTER VII. THE ETERNAL WEAKNESS

CHAPTER VIII. THE SILENT PEOPLE

CHAPTER IX. BACK IN BERMONDSEY

CHAPTER X. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MONSIEUR DUPOY

CHAPTER XI. THE MYSTERY OF THE CAFÉ SUPRÊME

CHAPTER XII. THE SPIDER’S PARLOUR

CHAPTER XIII. THE MARVELLOUS ESCAPE OF MR. HASLEM

CHAPTER XIV. “THE GIRLS OF LONDON”

CHAPTER XV. THE TRAGEDY AT CHARLECOT MANSIONS

CHAPTER XVI. A HOLIDAY BY THE SEA

CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE OF REST

CHAPTER XVIII. THE SIMPLE LIFE IN BERMONDSEY

CHAPTER XIX. THE PRINCE WHO RAN AWAY

I. PRYDE’S FIRST COMMISSION

MR. STEPHEN PRYDE having finished a somewhat protracted lunch leaned back in his chair and, under cover of a sheltering newspaper, carefully felt in each one of his pockets and counted the coins which were the result of his search. His worldly wealth apparently amounted to six shillings and fourpence halfpenny; the bill for his luncheon to three shillings. He called the waiter.

“Charles,” he said, “the luncheon was unusually good this morning.”

Charles stood in an attitude of pleased attention.

“I trust, sir,” he replied, “that it will be the same always.”

Mr. Stephen Pryde sighed. “Alas! henceforth it will be others who will realize that the Café de Lugano is the best restaurant of its sort for the poor man in London. You may let my table when you will, Charles. This afternoon I depart.”

The smile faded from the smooth white face of the attentive waiter. He was three parts a fraud, of course, but Stephen Pryde was certainly his favourite customer. “I am indeed sorry, sir,” he said gravely. “It will be but for a short time, I hope, that monsieur leaves us?”

Stephen Pryde shook his head gloomily. He was as a rule a particularly cheerful-looking young man, which made his gesture the more significant. “Alas!” he declared, “it may be that I shall eat no more of these excellent lunches. I go a long way away. My meals for the last few weeks, if you only knew it, Charles, have been precarious affairs. There is one question I would ask you, Charles, before we shake hands. You know every one of your regular customers. Tell me, who is the young lady who sits always in the opposite corner there?”

Charles half turned his head. The lady in question was sipping her coffee, apparently absorbed in the newspaper propped up before her. She was dressed with extreme simplicity in sombre black. Her cheeks were pale; her brown eyes were large and soft, and distinctly her most noticeable feature. She was a young woman of negative personality. She might almost have occupied any station in life.

“The young lady, sir,” Charles repeated, “in the corner? She is like monsieur, a regular client, but I do not know who she is. She never speaks except to order her luncheon or dinner; nor does she ever look about her.”

“That’s where you are not quite right, Charles,” Stephen Pryde objected. “The young lady has been watching me over the top of her newspaper.”

Charles smiled a little doubtfully.

“Mademoiselle has indeed a charming appearance and beautiful eyes,” he agreed, “but–” He held out his hands expressively.

Pryde laughed shortly. “Oh! I am not flattering myself particularly,” he remarked. “She has rooms in the same block of buildings as myself, so I have had opportunities of observing her. She is assuredly not of the type who seek adventures. Yet when she looks at one, one feels that she sees a good deal. Do you understand that, Charles?”

Charles seemed a little doubtful. His assent, too, was more polite than spirited.

“Not the type of person, I perceive,” Stephen Pryde continued, “likely to inspire you, Charles, with even curiosity. Nevertheless, I must confess that it would give me a certain satisfaction to discover the calling of that young lady. She does something in life–I am convinced of it. I am equally convinced that she is not a manicurist, or a milliner, or an actress… . The affair, after all, is of no consequence. There are three shillings for my bill, Charles, which you will have stamped at the desk and bring me back receipted. We will speak of the other little matter afterward.”

Charles retreated with a bow and stood awaiting his turn at the desk. Stephen Pryde glanced for a moment in the mirror at his right hand. Over the top of her paper the girl was watching him through half-closed eyes. He turned his head suddenly, but not suddenly enough. She had disappeared behind the newspaper.

“For some reason or other,” he murmured to himself, “she seems to take a certain interest in me. I wonder if she guesses.”

For a moment or two the faintly quizzical smile passed from the corners of his lips. He stared at the plate in front of him. His face had assumed an unusual gravity. For those few seconds it seemed to him that he was inspired with something very much like second sight. He saw into a dark world, and he shivered.

Stephen Pryde emerged from Soho into New Oxford Street, and, taking a turn to the left, proceeded a little way down a side street and entered a block of tall buildings. For one moment, as he entered, he turned round and glanced down the busy street which he had left. There was a certain significance in the moving traffic, the restless crowds of people, the panorama of living, which he had perhaps never wholly appreciated before. Then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he began to mount the stairs. Arrived at the fifth floor, he took out a key and let himself into the single room which had been his abode for the last few weeks. He hung up his hat and seated himself in the only chair before a small desk.

He was not in the habit of talking to himself, but the day was an unusual one with him. His little sitting-room, stripped bare during the last few weeks of every ornament and most of its furniture, certainly contained neither living person nor inanimate object likely to inspire conversation. Even his desk was devoid of its ordinary accessories. The luncheon from which he had just returned had been paid for with the proceeds of a silver-mounted ink-stand. Its place was taken now by a somewhat cumbersome-looking revolver of ancient pattern, yet with grim suggestions of efficiency in its very ugliness. Stephen Pryde looked at it intently.

“I fear,” he exclaimed softly, “that you must be my final choice! All my life I have been an obvious and commonplace person. I am forced now into an obvious and commonplace end. Not that it really matters–not that anything really matters.”

A knock at the door disturbed his meditations. With a little sigh he thrust the revolver into a drawer.

“Everything happening wrongly,” he murmured as he rose to his feet. “Even this interruption is stereotyped. Enter beautiful stranger with a pocketful of bank-notes. For choice, let her be the girl at the restaurant. Come in.”

The door was at once opened. The beautiful stranger was a myth. A fat and irritable-looking man of middle age, with exceedingly red face and exceedingly white hair, entered. Stephen Pryde glanced at him curiously, then gave a little sigh of relief.

“Neither philanthropist nor fairy princess,” he muttered under his breath. “Come in, sir, and shut the door,” he added in a louder key; “that is, if you think it worth while. First, though, let me warn you that, whatever you want, I haven’t got it.”

The new-comer stood without moving. In the podgy fingers of one hand he held the handle of the door, with the other he beckoned to Stephen Pryde.

“Young man,” he said, “come here.”

Stephen Pryde did not move. “Why should I?” he expostulated. “In the first place, I am not a young man. I am thirty-four years of age–thirty-five next month. In the second place–”

“D–n the second place!” the old gentleman interrupted fiercely. “Come here.”

Stephen Pryde was almost taken aback. The new-comer seemed suddenly to have become furiously and almost dangerously angry. The veins on his forehead stood out in unpleasant fashion. The very hairs upon his head seemed to bristle. He appeared to be on the verge of an apoplectic fit.

“Since you insist,” Pryde murmured, rising to his feet. “Calm yourself, I beg of you.”

He crossed the room and joined his visitor upon the threshold. The latter pointed with shaking finger to a plain visiting-card pinned upon the panel of the door.

“Your card, sir?” he demanded.

Stephen Pryde stared at it a little blankly. It was, without doubt, his own visiting-card. Its inscription was unmistakable:

Mr. Stephen Pryde, 32A Colmayne Court.

And in the corner:

St. Botolph Club.

“That,” he admitted, “is my card.”

“Of course it is,” the old gentleman replied testily. “Now, then, where do I sit?”

Stephen Pryde closed the door with one last puzzled glance at the card. “I am not sufficiently acquainted with your habits, sir, to answer that question definitely,” he remarked; “but, if you intend to sit down here, it must be either on my one chair or on the floor.”

The old gentleman snorted. “Who do you think I am?” he demanded.

Stephen Pryde shook his head gently.

“You are not a fairy princess,” he murmured. “You have no appearance of being a benevolent stranger. I think that you must be my uncle from India. Your complexion would seem–”

“D–n my complexion, sir!” the old gentleman shouted.

“By all means,” Stephen Pryde agreed. “Powder it, if you like. In fact, you can do what you jolly well please with it. Of course I don’t possess an uncle in India or anywhere else; so who are you? Make a clean breast of it.”

“I am John Picardo,” the visitor announced.

“I ought to have known it,” Stephen Pryde declared. “I congratulate you, Mr. Picardo. I congratulate you most heartily.”

The old gentleman regarded him dubiously.

“What on?” he demanded.

“Your name, sir,” Stephen Pryde answered glibly. “It suits you. It is unique. I am proud to know you, Mr. John Picardo.”

“Young man,” his visitor asked, “are you a humorist?”

“How can I tell?” Stephen Pryde replied. “No one has ever accused me of it. I may have unconscious gifts.”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Not from Adam.”

“I am a possible client,” Mr. John Picardo announced.

For one moment Stephen Pryde was staggered.

“I am very busy,” he murmured.

“Busy! Rubbish!”

“You may be right,” the puzzled young man admitted. “You probably are. You have the air of a man who is generally right.”

Mr. Picardo glanced at his watch.

“Let us talk business,” he insisted.

“At once,” his companion agreed. “My next appointment–”

“Never mind your next appointment,” Mr. John Picardo interrupted. “Listen to me. I am wealthy. I am not a mean man. I shall offer you an enterprise which will appeal to your imagination. Name your price for your exclusive services for twenty-four hours.”

Mr. Stephen Pryde blinked for a moment. Then he rose to his feet–he had been sitting on the edge of the desk. “Excuse me for one moment,” he begged.

He left the room and stole out on to the landing, studying intently the visiting-card upon the door.

“If only there had been the slightest indication as to my profession!” he sighed. “I may be a dentist or a clairvoyant, a phrenologist, or a pedicurist!”

He returned to the room. His face wore an expression of relief. “It is arranged,” he declared. “For the period of time you name I am at your service.”

Mr. Picardo betrayed a satisfaction which was in itself puzzling. “There remains only to name your fee.”

Stephen Pryde opened his mouth and closed it again. “It depends, of course, upon the nature of the–er–”

“Say a hundred guineas,” Mr. Picardo interrupted, his hand travelling towards his pocket; “one hundred guineas, and your expenses, of course.”

“My expenses, naturally,” Stephen Pryde murmured.

Mr. John Picardo produced a capacious pocket-book and counted out ten ten-pound notes. “One can never tell,” he said, dropping his voice a little. “I pay you these in advance. Spare nothing.”

He passed the notes across the table with one hand, and with the other he produced a copy of the Daily Times from his pocket.

“Look here.”

Stephen Pryde leaned over the table. His visitor’s fat forefinger was upon a certain line in the advertisement column:

Rita must be met Dover 8.45 to-night.

“Rita must be met,” Stephen Pryde repeated.

“And you,” Mr. John Picardo announced firmly, “are to meet her.”

Stephen Pryde breathed a sigh of relief. His new profession was still a little mythical, but it did not seem impossible to meet Rita.

“At 8.45 to-night,” he repeated.

Mr. Picardo glanced at his watch. “You will travel down,” he said, “by the six o’clock train.”

“And how,” Stephen Pryde inquired, “shall I recognise Rita when I see her?”

John Picardo stood upright for a moment. He was still florid of visage, his hair and beard were still white and stubbly, but his whole expression had changed. He had the air of one who moves amongst the tragedies. “You are accustomed to risks, Mr. Pryde?” he asked.

“Without a doubt,” Stephen Pryde answered promptly.

“I have been given to understand,” his visitor continued, “that you are to be relied upon in an emergency–that you have, in short, courage.”

Stephen Pryde smiled as he glanced at the closed drawer.

“Courage,” he remarked, “is of many sorts. I do not value my life.”

Mr. John Picardo nodded approvingly. “No man,” he assented, “in your profession should.”

“In my profession,” Stephen Pryde repeated thoughtfully.

“We come now to details,” Mr. John Picardo continued. “So far, you have shown an admirable discretion. You have asked no question.”

“It is not my custom,” the younger man declared.

“I have no doubt but that your methods are excellent,” Mr. John Picardo remarked. “This time you will have nothing to do but to keep a silent tongue, to watch for your opportunity, to strike if needs be, to obey orders literally. Listen. On the Dover boat from Calais to-night are travelling a woman and two men. The woman is Rita. I shall give you no other name, but if you read the illustrated papers you may recognise her. If you do, forget it. It is best that you know her only as Rita.”

“And how,” Stephen Pryde asked, “shall I recognise her?”

“She will wear a brown, fur-trimmed coat, a brown hat, with a bunch of violets, Neapolitan and English mixed, at her bosom. Your task will be to detach her from her companions and get her into a motor-car which will be waiting outside Dover town station.”

“May I ask what is the peculiar difficulty in the case?” Stephen Pryde demanded.

Mr. John Picardo fingered the watch-chain which stretched across his capacious stomach. “The woman is not in custody,” he said. “You need not be afraid of that. Neither the police of this country nor of any other have the slightest reason to interfere. The men who are with her represent other things and other powers, things we do not speak of. It is possible that in the course of your experience you may have come across them. It is possible that, if you have studied in any way the political history of the southern countries of Europe during the last few months, the situation may become clear to you. You observe that now and then, when I am excited, I speak with the accent of a country which is at present in the throes of anarchy and revolution. If you succeed to-night, it may be that brighter days may dawn for her–if not in this generation, at least in the next.”

Stephen Pryde listened with immovable face. There was no doubting the earnestness of his visitor. “To return once more to practical details,” he said slowly, “where am I to conduct this lady?”

“The man who drives the car will know,” Mr. Picardo replied slowly. “If it should happen that you do succeed–”

“I shall succeed,” Stephen Pryde interrupted.

Mr. John Picardo was no longer a stout and choleric gentleman of somewhat past middle age. On his face played for a moment the fire of the enthusiast. “In that case,” he remarked, taking up his hat, “we shall meet again.”

Stephen Pryde had the true adventurer’s disposition. He first of all went in search of the liftman and asked him several questions. Afterwards he went out, changed one of his notes, bought a box of most expensive cigarettes and a large bunch of roses. With the latter in his hand he returned to the block of buildings in which his rooms were situated and knocked at the door of a suite of apartments on the third floor. A clear but very soft voice invited him to enter. He found himself in a sitting-room, plainly, almost severely furnished. A girl looked up from the typewriter before which she was working. He recognised her at once.

“I do not intrude, I hope?” he said.

She looked at him with a very faint smile. “Not in the least,” she answered. “Pray come in. You are Mr. Stephen Pryde, are you not? My name is Grace Burton.”

“You will permit me?” he begged, offering the roses.

She shook her head reprovingly, but she held out her hands for the flowers, and breaking off one of the blossoms, fastened it in her plain grey gown.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that you are a very extravagant person, Mr. Pryde. Will you tell me now why you have come to see me, and why you are looking so much more cheerful than you did in the restaurant?”

“I have embraced a new profession,” he declared, coming a little nearer to her. “I do not know what it is exactly, but I am very busy.”

“A new profession?”

He nodded. “Before I go on,” he said, “I must ask you a question. Had you anything to do with pinning my card to the outside of my door this afternoon, and sending a purple and choleric old gentleman named Picardo in to see me?”

The little lines at the corners of her eyes deepened. “Yes,” she admitted, “I sent him. Confess, now, that my little scheme was good?”

“It was good, beyond a doubt,” he agreed, “but exceedingly puzzling. Mr. John Picardo found me penniless, hopeless, and on the point–well, never mind. He left me with more money than I have seen for a very long time, a delightful little flutter of excitement, and a career. But if you can, Miss Burton, will you not explain? I am uneasy about that career. Apparently I may be anything, from a rose fancier to a criminal.”

The girl looked at him steadily. At close quarters he wondered less than ever at the curiosity with which she had inspired him. Although her appearance was in one sense of the word childish, her skin fresh and smooth, her eyes brown and innocent, her fair hair so youthful, there was yet a sort of quiet placidity of features and expression which gave to her an air of strength and a capacity utterly at variance with her physical appearance. She looked at him without the slightest embarrassment.

“Yes,” she said, “I will explain. As you see, I do a little typewriting, but it is for myself. I am alone in the world, and I have a very little money–barely enough to keep me. I have been alone so long that I have learnt a great deal of the world and its ways. Once, not so long ago, a friend was in trouble. I helped her. It was not a difficult matter, but one had to think. Later on the same thing happened. Then a few more people came to me. They say that I have a capacity for seeing the truth through a tangled mass of issues. Mr. John Picardo came to me for advice not long ago. I helped him. He came again to-day. He spoke of many things. I shook my head. This time, I told him, it must be a man whom he employed. ‘But where shall I find him?’ Mr. John Picardo asked. ‘He must be brave, a man of resource, a man willing to take risks.’ ‘Wait,’ I replied. I slipped out. Only to-day after luncheon your waiter gave me your card. I was curious about you. I knew that you had lost the whole of your fortune not a month ago in the collapse of that great insurance company. So I took that card from my purse, I pinned it to the door of your room above. Then I returned. ‘Mr. Picardo,’ I said, ‘I know of a man who will do your bidding.’?”

“My dear young lady,” Stephen Pryde exclaimed, “I thank you most heartily.”

“You need not,” she interrupted, a little coldly. “There was nothing personal in my choice.”

“Cannot you tell me a little more?” he asked, a little eagerly. “Mr. John Picardo, for instance–what is he? A merchant? A politician?”

She shook her head. “This is one of those affairs, Mr. Pryde, in which you might easily know too much. Take my advice: ask few questions. Simply do your best to follow out instructions exactly. If the woman whom you meet to-night can be taken away from those men, even for a few short hours, the history of her country may be differently written.”

Pryde rose to his feet. “May I come and report to you when I return, Miss Burton?”

She nodded gravely. “Certainly,” she replied. “I shall expect you to do so.”

He lingered for a moment, but her eyes had fallen upon the sheet of paper stretched out before her. She looked almost like a child bending over her lessons. Pryde turned and left the room.

II. THE MYSTERIOUS RESCUE AT DOVER

“FOR you, sir.”

The train was already moving out of Charing Cross Station when a man suddenly thrust his arm in at the carriage window and threw a piece of folded paper on to Pryde’s knee. He was gone in a moment, undistinguishable in the crowd. The message consisted only of a few lines:

The escort of the lady will travel under the name of Mr. de Paton.

The information was useful. Two hours later the boat-train was backed into the harbour station. Pryde sat on a seat and watched. Presently a guard came along with a little handful of labels. When he had finished his task, Pryde strolled along the platform inspecting them. There was a compartment reserved, as he had expected, for Mr. de Paton. It was still half an hour before the boat was due, and there were very few people about. Pryde looked into the carriage and tried the door. It was locked. The guard came by a moment or two later.

“That carriage is engaged, sir,” he remarked. “Plenty of room, if you are going on. Shall I find you a seat, sir?”

Pryde nodded.

“I should like one in the next carriage to this,” he said. “By the by, have you locked the door on the other side of this engaged compartment?”

The guard glanced at his questioner curiously. Pryde slipped five shillings into his hand.

“Don’t!” he begged. “An affair of a young lady. I may get in at the town station.”

The man smiled and touched his hat. “I’ll see to it, sir,” he promised.

Pryde, leaning over the rails a few yards away from the quay, watched the lights of the approaching steamer. There was a strong wind blowing and a little drizzling rain, a flavour of salt in the air, a sense of excitement, stimulating, mysterious. Nearer and nearer the steamer came. The ropes were thrown, she was gradually drawn in to the side of the dock. The gangway was lowered, the little stream of people began to disembark. Pryde stood apart amongst the shadows at the end of the train. He had only the vaguest idea as to what he was to do. He was to abduct a lady forcibly from an escort of two men, probably prepared, possibly even armed. It was useless to make plans; to trust to chance and his quick wits seemed his only alternative. The first thing was to discover her. The boat was crowded, and for some time Pryde was kept on the alert. When, however, they did come off, amongst the last to leave the boat, the little party was easily distinguishable. The woman in brown walked in the middle. A tall, slim man, unmistakably foreign, black-haired, wearing an eye-glass, walked on one side; a shorter, thick-set man in a fur overcoat, with his hands in his pockets, on the other. The woman was closely veiled.

They came into the illumination of a little shaft of light. The thick-set man swung round. His features, coarse, dominant, remarkable, were suddenly disclosed. Pryde was conscious of a catch in his throat, a strange dizziness. The man’s heavy face seemed to be grinning at him through the gloom–Feldemay!

Pryde, a moment later, was perfectly cool. His mind was centred upon his present enterprise. There was Feldemay to outwit–Feldemay, apparently unconscious that an enemy was watching him from there amongst the shadows. The little party of three passed on and stood in a line before the long counter where small baggage was being examined. Nothing was looked at. Once more they moved, this time towards the train. Pryde’s heart was beating fast as he followed. Then the woman dropped the bag which she was carrying. Feldemay walked stolidly on. Her other companion, too, seemed unconscious of what had happened. Pryde slipped into the latter’s place.

“Sit on the right-hand side of the train,” he whispered. “Allow me,” he went on, in a louder tone, stooping and restoring the bag.

Both of her companions swung round, but Pryde had already disappeared. He watched them from the window of his compartment, into which he had slipped unobserved. They all three stood talking upon the platform, Feldemay gesticulating excitedly, the woman immovable, the other man nervous. Pryde sat back in his corner and held a newspaper in front of his face. There was nothing more to be done for the moment.

The train left at last; Pryde rose to his feet as they jolted out of the station. He was alone in the compartment. He stood up. He had preparations to make. Everything depended upon his luck. The train came to a standstill at the town station. He alighted at once and stood waiting. He selected his moment with great care. The train was on the point of starting again, the whistle was already in the guard’s lips. Suddenly Pryde threw open the door of the compartment in which the woman and her two companions were travelling. His accusing finger shot out. He had the appearance of a man beside himself with anger.

“At last!” he shouted. “Feldemay, you blackguard!”

The woman was seated nearest to the window, Feldemay opposite her, the other man on the opposite side of the carriage. Feldemay seemed absolutely paralysed. He cowered back in his place. The woman edged to her feet. She was bewildered, but she kept her eyes fixed upon Pryde.

“I’ve found you at last!” Pryde exclaimed, making as though he would enter the carriage. “You robber!”

Feldemay was slowly coming to himself. The train was moving. The guard was running up from behind.

“Stand away, there!”

Pryde’s hand was upon the woman’s wrist. She jumped just as Feldemay made a grab for her. Pryde banged the door and locked it with a key which he had kept secreted in his pocket. A moment or two later he was surrounded by a little group of porters, a policeman, and the station-master. The train was gliding away from the platform. Two furious men, leaning out of the window, were shouting and gesticulating. Pryde shook his fist at them and addressed the station-master.

“I am sorry to cause any disturbance,” he said calmly. “This is entirely a family matter. The young lady is my sister. I am taking her home.”

They turned to her. She was closely veiled, but she was obviously of an age to speak for herself.

“It is quite true,” she murmured in a low tone. “I am sorry to have given so much trouble. It was not altogether my fault.”

The station-master took down Pryde’s name and address. Pryde, with his hand upon the woman’s arm, hurried away, a few moments later, towards the exit. A hundred yards or so outside the station the train was slowly drawing to a standstill, the alarm signal ringing violently.

“Where are we?” the woman murmured. “What are we going to do?”

“There should be a motor-car here,” Pryde answered quickly. “I hope to Heaven it’s ready!”

They were in the yard. A big car stood only a few yards from the principal entrance, its engine already purring. Pryde almost pushed his companion in. Already there was another disturbance upon the platform. The arrested train was still in sight, a serpent of lights come to a standstill along the line. They could see men running down the bank.

“Quick! Get her started!” Pryde shouted. “Quick!”

It was an admonition entirely unnecessary. The car seemed to slip away into fourth speed almost at a touch. They flew through the town; the streets flashed by. Pryde leaned back in his place with a little breath of relief.

“By Jove, we’ve done it!” he exclaimed.

They were climbing the hill and out of the town. The country loomed up before them, a dim patchwork of fields starred here and there with lights. The woman raised her veil for the first time. She had a quantity of dark brown hair, regular features, and the quality of her voice was delightful. But the frozen look of fear lay like a mask upon her face.

“Can’t we go faster,” she murmured–“much faster? Look behind.”

Pryde obeyed her, but drew in his head again almost immediately. “We are going over thirty miles an hour,” he said, “and we have a start. Nothing will catch us.”

She shivered. “How can one tell? How far is it?”

“To where?”

“To where we are going–to where he waits.”

“I do not know,” he replied.

She looked at him fixedly. “Who are you?”

“No one you ever heard of before,” he assured her. “My name is Pryde. I am only an instrument in this affair.”

“But you know Feldemay! He is the worst of them all. He is the Robespierre of my country!”

“I met him by chance,” Pryde answered. “He robbed me once. It was in the days before he touched politics.”

They rushed on through the darkness, for a time, in silence. The woman leaned back as though weary, her eyes closed. Then the car seemed to jolt and slacken speed. She sprang up, terrified. They had stopped in the road. The chauffeur, on his way to the back of the car, thrust his head for a moment through the open window. He kept his face turned away, although he was entirely unrecognisable through his motor-glasses and cap.

“A puncture,” he announced shortly. “I can fix a wheel in a matter of three minutes.”

“Oh! hurry–please hurry!” the woman prayed.

The man stepped backwards with a low and respectful bow. For several minutes he worked silently. The woman all the time was peering out. The rain had ceased and some faint glimmerings of moonlight lay upon the immediate landscape. The shapes of the hedges were defined, the lights from a distant farmhouse were dimly visible. Suddenly she started.

“Listen!”

The sound of a motor-car driven beyond its proper speed was distinctly audible. The woman gripped the side of the window. “Tell him to go on–to go on, anyhow,” she begged. “Don’t let them catch us!”

The chauffeur was working with furious haste at the side of the car. Pryde sprang out and made his way to the bend of the road round which they had come. The pursuing car, recklessly driven, was close at hand. They could even hear the knocking of its engine. Pryde thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket and drew out the revolver which he had destined to so different a use only a few hours ago. The twin lights of the approaching motor-car were now within twenty paces of him. He took steady aim and fired. There was a crashing of glass, a shout of anger, the jarring of brakes, and then a bump as the car, missing the bend, caught the ditch with its near wheel. His own chauffeur was now blowing his horn furiously. Pryde ran lightly back and sprang into his seat. The woman clutched his arm.

“What have you done?” she cried.

“Shot out their lights,” Pryde answered coolly. “They missed the turn and ran into the hedge. I don’t think any of them are badly hurt. In any case, it had to be done. It’s better than having a scrimmage in the road.”

The woman glanced at him approvingly. Her thin lips quivered, her eyes were soft.

“They chose well when they sent you,” she murmured.

Once more his companion sat back in her place, her hands clasped together, her eyes half closed. Pryde watched the road, glancing occasionally behind. At last came signs that they were approaching the end of their journey. They had turned off the main road and seemed to be making their way through a park. On either side of the open road were rolling slopes, with here and there a gigantic oak-tree. They passed over a bridge, through a wood, and along another winding stretch of avenue. Suddenly a bank of clouds passed away from the face of the moon. They were rapidly approaching a great mansion, from many of the windows of which, notwithstanding the hour, lights were shining.

“We seem to have arrived somewhere,” Pryde said softly.

Her hand touched his shoulder. Then he knew that she had not really been resting. He could feel the fever of her finger-tips.

“Courage,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “There is history to be made here, if only the fates are kind.”