The Gold Magnet E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The cold drizzle made Plymouth unhappy, and it was with a sigh of relief that Bruce Carey exchanged the greasy, dirty platform of North Road Station for the warm, well-lit comfort of a first-class night mail coupe for London. At first he thought that he would have a car, but when the train was getting ready to start, a man jumped into it and fell on the seat opposite Bruce. He was breathing heavily, as if running, and Bruce, looking at him, was struck by the expression on his face.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE NIGHT MAIL

II. BRUCE TAKES CHARGE

III. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS

IV. PARTNERS

V. THE QUIET HOUSE

VI. SOME MERRY MOMENTS

VII. A CONFERENCE

VIII. THE FUNERAL AND AFTER

IX. A WARNING FROM RANDOLPH

X. A WORD WITH DUGGAN

XI. PREPARATIONS

XII. A LONELY VIGIL

XIII. IN THE STRONG-ROOM

XIV. TRAPPED!

XV. THE GREY MAN

XVI. INTRODUCING A LAWYER

XVII. THE INQUEST OPENS

XVIII. THE VERDICT

XIX. A CALLER AT THE COTTAGE

XX. THE BALANCE TREMBLES

XXI. THE TRIAL OPENS

XXII. EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENCE

XXIII. BOUGHT LIES

XXIV. A BOARD MEETING AT DUKE'S GATE

XXV. A STRATEGIC RETREAT

XXVI. MR. PRICE TURNS HIS BACK

XXVII. SILVIA LEARNS TO DRIVE

XXVIII. DECLINED WITHOUT THANKS

XXIX. STORM STRIKES DARTMOOR

XXX. SILVIA FINDS FRIENDS

XXXI. THE MAN WHO FISHED

XXXII. GETTING READY

XXXIII. THE RETURN OF RANDOLPH

XXXIV. A LAG AND A LADY

XXXV. UNDER FIRE

XXXVI. A CHANGE OF IDENTITY

XXVII. DISASTER

XXXVIII. CONFESSION

I. THE NIGHT MAIL

A COLD drizzling rain had made Plymouth a misery, and it was with a sigh of relief that Bruce Carey exchanged the greasy, draughty platform of North Road Station for the warm, well-lit comfort of a first-class compartment on the night mail for London.

At first he thought he was going to have the carriage all to himself, but just as the train was on the point of starting a man jumped in and dropped on the seat opposite to Bruce. He was breathing hard as if he had been running, and Bruce, glancing up at him, was startled at the expression upon his face.

“Scared,” said Bruce to himself. “And precious badly scared at that.” While pretending to read his magazine he covertly watched his neighbor, wondering meantime what could possibly have reduced him to such a condition. It was hard to imagine any cause for such terror on the prosaic platform of North Road Station. Nor did the man himself seem the sort to yield easily to such terror. Though slightly built and turning a little grey over the ears he was anything but a rabbit. His features were distinctly good, he had a strong chin and nose, and he was quietly but very well dressed. Bruce noticed that his hands were well shaped, with long and rather delicate fingers. In his left hand he had a small leather bag, which seemed of particularly sturdy construction. To Bruce’s surprise, he saw that it was attached by a chain to a belt around his waist, like the bullion bag of a bank manager.

At last the guard’s whistle sounded, and the long train began to move slowly out of the station. As it did so the man’s set features relaxed a little, and with a long breath he sank back against the cushions. The train gained speed and soon was running eastwards at well over 50 miles an hour. Bruce began to read in earnest, but the other sat perfectly still, with eyes half closed.

Half an hour passed, the train was nearing Newton Abbott when at last the stranger stirred and sat up. “Can you tell me when we are due at Exeter?” he asked.

Voice and manner were well-bred and pleasant, and Bruce, laying down his magazine, took a time-table from his pocket.

“Ten past one,” he answered.

“Thank you very much. I am wondering whether I shall have time to get some food there. There is no restaurant car on this train.”

Bruce shook his head. “I am afraid you won’t be able to get anything at this hour. The refreshment rooms will be closed. But as it happens, I have sandwiches–more than I can manage. I shall be glad if you will share them.”

“It is most kind of you. I should be really grateful. The fact is that I have had nothing since breakfast.” He smiled as he spoke, a smile which lit his worn face very pleasantly.

Bruce quickly opened his bag, and, taking out a large packet of sandwiches, began to open them, “You must be starved,” he said. “Please begin at once. No, I assure you that you are not robbing me. I dined at the Lockyer and did myself well. Incidentally, these are Lockyer sandwiches.”

“A good restaurant,” replied the other with his pleasant smile, “They are excellent.”

The ice thus broken, the two men were soon chatting freely, and Bruce found himself distinctly attracted by his chance acquaintance, who was evidently a man who had travelled a good deal and kept his eyes open while he did so. The talk drifted to mining, Bruce’s new friend began to talk of the Malayan tin mines, which he seemed to know well, but he pulled up suddenly. “I am afraid I am boring you,” he apologised.

“That you are not,” Bruce answered quickly. “I am a miner myself. But not tin. My speciality is gold.”

“Gold!” repeated the other, and suddenly the scared expression which had been so noticeable when he first got into the carriage crossed his face again.

Bruce was puzzled but at the same time interested. “Yes,” he said, “I have been prospecting in New Guinea. Indeed I am only just back. I got in this afternoon on the Maraku.”

“And there is gold there?” asked the other.

“Any amount. A lot of placer, but also tremendous bodies of ore. Evidently most of them are low grade, so it is no sort of mining for a poor man.”

“I see. You need capital, of course.”

“That is what I have come home for–that and another reason.” As he spoke Bruce Carey’s good-looking face grew suddenly grim.

“There is no reason why I should not tell you,” went on Bruce. “A relative of mine–my half-brother in fact–has got into an ugly mess, and it’s up to me to get him out.”

“I am sorry,” said the other gently. “I hope that you will succeed. And now will you tell me about your gold mine? It happens to be a subject in which I am deeply interested. May I mention that my name is Egerton–Stuart Egerton.”

“And mine is Bruce Carey,” said Bruce with a smile. “Yes, certainly, I’ll tell you about my mine.”

Bruce talked well. He described those dripping forests into whose steaming depths the sun never penetrates, the terrific gorges which cut deep into the foot-hills of the great central mountain chain of New Guinea. He spoke of tribes of almost unknown savages and of the appalling difficulties which beset the prospector in this vast and still almost unknown island.

As he talked his keen brown face lit up, and he pushed his fingers through his dark, crisp hair with a curiously boyish gesture.

There was no doubt about Egerton’s interest. He leaned forward, listening eagerly, and once in a way throwing in quick questions which proved his knowledge of the subject.

The train had long passed Exeter. It was thundering across the wide plain of Somerset, and Bruce was still talking, when suddenly he saw that Egerton was no longer listening. His eyes were fixed upon the door leading into the corridor, and in them was the self-same look of stark terror as when he had first entered the train at Plymouth.

Instinctively Bruce glanced towards the door. A face was pressed against the glass in the upper part. A man’s face, with a big, aquiline nose, a jutting chin, and eyes of a cold grey. It was the hardest, cruelest face Bruce had ever seen.

“So he is here! He is in the train!” gasped Egerton, and in his voice there was a note of absolute despair.

Bruce was on his feet in a flash, and sprang towards the door. It stuck a little, and before he could slide it back the face had vanished.

Bruce strode rapidly first up, then down, the corridor, looking into each compartment as he passed. But several were darkened by a cap over the lamp, and in the others he could see no one remotely resembling the watcher at the window.

He came back.

“You–you saw him?” asked Egerton, in a breathless whisper.

“No. He has either reached another coach, or he is in one of the darkened carriages. I–I gather he is not a friend of yours?”

“He is my worst enemy. He is a blackguard, a thief, a man whose God is money and whose heart is stone.”

Egerton did not raise his voice in the least, yet the deadly earnestness with which he spoke was proof positive of the terror with which this man inspired him.

Bruce sat down again, waiting to hear more.

“He is trying to rob me of my life’s work,” went on Egerton feverishly. “I thought–I believed that I had dodged him in Plymouth. But now he is on the train. Now I shall never escape him. See here!”

He whipped his soft hat off and bent forward. On top of the scalp was a long, narrow bald patch seamed with the red scar of what must have been a terrible wound. “That is the relic of our last meeting,” he said.

For the moment Bruce could find nothing to say. He realised that he had suddenly run upon stark tragedy. Before he could think of suitable words the steady roar of the train was interrupted by a harsh, grinding sound. There was a shock which hurled Bruce forward on to the opposite seat.

The whole carriage seemed to lift under him. A tremendous crash, stars glittered in a dancing shower before his eyes–then for a time he knew nothing more.

II. BRUCE TAKES CHARGE

RAIN–cold rain splashing on his face was the next thing of which Bruce was aware. He stirred and opened his eyes. His head sang like a kettle, he felt stupid and dazed, and though he tried hard he could not imagine where he was or remember what had happened.

It was dark, yet the darkness was lit by a red glow. Somewhere there was a steady crackling sound. Bruce felt he knew that sound, and that there was danger in it, yet he could not place it. By slow degrees his brain began to work again, and he realised that he was lying flat on his back, looking straight up into the night sky, from which the rain fell steadily.

There was a cushion beneath him, one of the seat-cushions. It lay across a mass of wreckage, and it came to Bruce that this wreckage was one end of the compartment in which he had been travelling. The carriage, shattered to matchwood, lay on its side at the bottom of a low embankment. There had been an almighty smash. That much became clear.

With an effort he managed to sit up. He was still abominably giddy, and his head pained him. Putting up his hand, he found a cut in his forehead. But it was not a bad one, and it seemed to be his only injury. “My lucky day, evidently,” he said, half aloud.

The crackling became louder. A puff of hot smoke blew down upon him. “Good God, the train is afire!” he said, and struggled to his feet.

Through the crackling came a moan, and in a flash Bruce remembered his follow traveller. A jet of flame lit the gloom and by its light Bruce saw Egerton’s tortured face not a yard away. Only his face and shoulders were visible. The rest of him was hidden–pinned under a mass of wreckage.

The sight drove everything else out of Bruce’s mind, and flinging himself upon the broken timbers he began tearing them aside with his bare hands.

It was time, too. That ominous crackling was louder ever moment, and the ugly red glare grew stronger. The fire was eating fast through the wreckage.

In the distance were shouts, a crash of axes on planking and presently shocking screams. Bruce hardly heard these sounds. All his energies were centred on the release of poor Egerton. After all the unfortunate man had suffered, to meet such an end as this seemed to Bruce too dreadful and pitiful. He worked with a set and savage energy, and at last, using a broken piece of planking as a lever, managed to raise the mass of stuff which lay across Egerton’s body.

He stooped, and got his arm around the other.

Egerton groaned terribly. “I can’t stand it,” he said, hoarsely. “Leave me where I am.”

“Man, I can’t. The fire is on us,” answered Bruce, and hardening his heart picked up the unfortunate man bodily, and with a great effort lifted him clear. Staggering away to a safe distance, he laid him down on the soaking grass by the edge of the line.

The scene was grotesque in its horror. The wreckage was now blazing fiercely, and the crimson glow lit up the figures of men who toiled furiously to rescue the poor creatures trapped in the burning carriages, and of others who ran wildly to and fro seeking for lost wives or sisters, husbands or sweethearts. The screams of the sufferers were terrible beyond description.

Egerton lay like a log. His eyes were closed, his face grey and ghastly. Only his slow breathing showed that he was still alive.

Suddenly Bruce remembered that he had a flask in his pocket. With difficulty he got a few drops of whisky down Egerton’s throat, and almost at once the unfortunate man’s eyes opened.

“You are better?” said Bruce anxiously.

Egerton smiled–a pitiful smile. “I shall never be any better,” he answered quietly. “My chest is crushed.”

Bruce’s heart ached. “My dear fellow,” he said gently, “you cannot possibly tell. Let me fetch a doctor.”

Egerton stretched a thin hand. “No!” he said forcibly. “I cannot last many minutes. I am certain of that. Stay with me, Carey, I beg that you will stay.”

He paused, gasping for breath.

“I am not sorry,” he went on presently. “Not for myself, at least. Since my wife died I have not cared greatly to live. Were it not for my daughter I could go without a regret.”

He stopped and looked hard at Bruce.

“Carey,” he continued. “We are only casual acquaintances, yet somehow I feel that I can trust you. Will you do something for me.”

“Of course,” Bruce answered quietly.

“Wait! This is a big thing that I am asking. It means that I leave you a legacy of great danger, yet at the same time one of immense profit.”

“The danger that you speak of has to do with the enemy of whom you have told me?”

“That is so. Listen, now, for I have not much time. You have noticed this bag I carry. In it is contained an invention on which I have spent the best years of my life.”

Again he paused. His voice was weaker and Bruce dosed him again with whisky.

“You are aware,” he said, “that an ordinary magnet attracts three metals–iron, nickel, and cobalt. Twenty years ago it occurred to me that it might be possible to construct a magnet which would attract gold in a similar fashion. An American named Macarthy began experiments of this kind, and was on the right track, but he died, and I purchased his notes from his executor, and went on with the experiments. I have no time left to explain the immense difficulties which I encountered nor how I surmounted them. Enough to say that in the end I succeeded, and a few months ago perfected a new form of magnet which attracts gold, silver, copper, and tin, exactly as an ordinary magnet attracts steel.”

Bruce stared. The story was crazy, incredible.

“I know what you are thinking,” went on Egerton, with a faint smile. “You fancy that I am romancing, or that what I tell you is the wanderings of a dying man. You are wrong. I still possess all my senses the facts are exactly as I have stated, and if you accept my trust you will be able to prove the truth of them for yourself.

“The apparatus is in this bag, but it is useless without the necessary directions. These are in the possession of my daughter, Sylvia.”

“What I ask you to do is to take the bag to her, to tell her how I came to my end, to obtain from her these directions, and to use the magnet as you will know well how to use it. It will, of course, be invaluable in the treatment of all low-grade ores and should make you a very wealthy man. I suggest that half your profits should go to my daughter.”

“Wealthy!–There are millions in it!” exclaimed Bruce. “I should be the richest man in the world.”

“Wait!” said the other. “Wait! It is not to simple as it sounds. This man of whom I spoke knows of my invention, and he and his gang are sworn to get it from me. I have so far defeated them, for that they hate me with a fierce and deadly hatred. If you accept my charge you accept a most dangerous legacy.”

Bruce laughed. “Scum like that!” he said scornfully. “Vulgar thieves and criminals!”

“But dangerous–deadly dangerous. I know no living man more utterly pitiless and unscrupulous than James Lurgan.”

Bruce gave a startled gasp. “James Lurgan!” he repeated. “That is the very man whom I have to thank for ruining my brother Claude, the self-same scoundrel I have come to England to run down. Egerton, I accept your legacy. I accept it with joy and gratitude. Your magnet will be a weapon with which to fight him–that is if he is not killed in this accident.”

“The devil looks after his own,” said Egerton gravely. “He is still alive. I feel it.”

His face went grey again. Great beads of sweat stood on his forehead. Bruce saw that he was dying. But the will within him still held body and spirit together for a little moment more, and he spoke again, though in the merest whisper.

“Carey, you have taken a great load off my mind, and if the blessing of a dying man can help you, be sure you have it. My daughter lives near Reading. You will find her address in the bag. Unbuckle my belt, take the bag, and when you have it, go at once.”

He raised his hand. “At once,” he repeated. “At once!” his hand dropped, his eyes closed. One fluttering breath, then the end.

Unbuckling the belt, Bruce took the bag and walked rapidly away to where the lights of a farmhouse twinkled through the night.

III. ROBBERY UNDER ARMS

A WAITER came to where Bruce Carey sat busily writing in the reading room of the Bridge Hotel at Reading. “The gentleman you were expecting is here, sir. Shall I show him in?”

Before Bruce could answer there came a voice from the door, a soft drawl that anyone who knew America would at once place as Virginian.

“Say, Bruce, if you thought I was going to wait for any bell boy to show me up I reckon you were missing it badly. I was in too much of a mighty hurry to see your old phiz again.”

Bruce grasped both of Randolph Colt’s hands. “I’m sure you weren’t in a bigger hurry than I,” he exclaimed. “How fit you’re looking!”

“I should be straining the truth if I said the same for you,” returned Colt. “You look as if you’d been out on the tiles all night with the cats. Honest, what have you been doing to your fool self?”

“If you’ll take that chair and light this cigar, I’ll do my best to tell you,” Bruce answered.

“Bad as that, is it?” remarked Colt as he obeyed instructions. He was a tall, lean man of about 30, with the entirely competent appearance of the travelled American. He had a wide, humorous mouth and grey eyes that were amazingly keen and bright. His dark hair was carefully parted in the middle, his hands were perfectly manicured, while his unobtrusive brown tweed suit, his boots and all he wore were the best that Bond-street can produce.

“Judging by your wire,” he added, “I rather reckoned it was something urgent. Has it anything to do with that decoration,” indicating the patch of plaster or Bruce’s forehead.

“Oh, that’s nothing. I got it in the smash yesterday on the Great Southern.”

“Gee, were you in that?”

“I was. And it’s on the smash this story hangs. Time presses, so listen.”

Bruce had the gift of putting things into few words. In five minutes he had given Randolph Colt a full account of the doings of the previous night.

Colt knocked the ash off his cigar, and straightened his long back. “You certainly have been mixing it some, Bruce,” he said, gravely. “And it’s sure a queer chance that James Lurgan should be doing the heavy villain in both of these pieces. I’m kind of glad you sent for me.”

“You’ll help?”

Colt smiled. “What do you think? Why Bruce, this is the greatest, ever. And let me tell you, it’s time, too. I reckon Lurgan’s lot have got Claude mighty near down and out. I’ve done what I could to help the kid, but I don’t cut much ice with him. He needs you.”

“And I’m going to him as soon as I can. But first I must see this girl.”

“Better do that right away. Where does she live?”

“Deeping Cottage. It’s near Mortimer. I’ve ordered a car.”

“Then bring your magnet and come right along. If we get this thing fixed this afternoon, we can reach London for dinner, and see Claude before he goes a by-by.”

Bruce nodded. “Wait here. I’ll get the parcel. It’s in the hotel safe.” He was back in five minutes. “Cars waiting,” he said.

The weather had changed completely, and a bright sun shone on a smiling countryside as the car ran swiftly along the broad Bath-road. A chauffeur from the garage drove, while Bruce and Randolph both sat together in the comfortable tonneau.

Colt lit a fresh cigarette.

“You’ve seen Lurgan since the smash?” he asked.

“No, but his name is not in the list of killed or injured. As poor Egerton said the ‘devil looks after his own.’”

“Do you reckon he’s on your trail?”

“I don’t think he can be. I went on to Bristol by car after the accident, and got train from there.”

“Good. Then I guess we’ll be all right for a few hours, anyway.”

“Hulloa!” he broke off sharply. “What’s up?”

A big hay cart lay across the road. A wheel had come off. Several men were lifting the bales of hay aside, and a few passers-by were watching.

As Bruce’s chauffeur pulled up, two men who had been standing on the foot-path ran across to the car. The first drew a pistol, a huge, ugly looking revolver.

“Hands up!” he shouted in a theatrical manner, and jammed the muzzle against Bruce’s side. The other did the same for Colt.

For a moment Bruce was so astonished he could only stare. His first impression was that these men were playing some silly game.

The whole thing was too melodramatic to be real. Yet, in spite of his theatrical manner, his wide brimmed hat and absurd get-up, there was a look in the fellow’s eyes that meant business.

“It’s the real thing!” rasped the man in his car. “Don’t you make no mistake about that. Put your hands up, and keep ’em up, or I’ll blow a hole right through you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” retorted Bruce scornfully. “Why, there are a dozen people looking on, and more coming up. What do you think they’d be doing?”

“Just what they’re doing now–looking on. You turn your eyes to the left, and you’ll see why.”

Bruce glanced to the left. A man stood on the hedge bank with a cinema camera of which he was turning the handle. In a flash Bruce understood, and, as he realised the infernal cleverness of the whole scheme, his heart sank in his boots. All the lookers-on who were not in the plot were under the full belief that a film was being produced, and under such circumstances not one of course would lift a finger to interfere.

“It’s good goods,” Randolph whispered in Bruce’s ear. “James has got us to rights. Guess there ain’t anything for it but hand out and look pleasant.”

“The only thing you need to hand out is that there little bag you’ve got beside you on the seat,” said Bruce’s assailant.

Bruce hesitated. To lose the magnet at this stage of the game was ruin. His best weapon would be turned against him.

The muzzle of the pistol was pressed hard against the side.

“Get a move on,” snapped its owner.

Again Bruce heard Randolph’s whisper, but this time so slow that only he could hear it. “Give it up, Bruce. Gold’s no use to dead men.”

There was no braver man alive than Randolph Colt. Bruce knew that. Randolph would never back down while there was a fighting chance. If he said that the magnet must be given up he meant it. He waited no longer, but picking up the bag handed it over.

The man snatched it, and backed off, still covering Bruce with his absurd gun. His comrade did the same, keeping Colt covered, the camera man meantime steadily turning his handle.

The precious pair backed until they were level with the overturned cart, then both whipped round and in a flash were behind it.

Colt made one jump out of the car, pulled a pistol and raced after them, and Bruce was almost as quick. It was too late. Already the pair were in the car which was waiting for them on the other side of the obstruction. The camera man, leaving his instrument, leaped after them and the car shot away at a tremendous pace.

Colt lifted his pistol and fired twice. The second bullet struck the back of the car, sending splinters flying. Then she was out of range.

He turned back. His lips were set a little tighter than usual, but otherwise his face showed no sign of what he was really feeling.

One of the spectators, a mere boy, ran up in great excitement. “I say, were those real bullets you fired?”

“They were, sonny,” replied Colt drily. “And that was a real hold-up, too.”

Leaving the boy gaping, he jumped back into the car. “Get in, Bruce,” he said. “There’s room to pass now and we may as well push on.”

“We may as well go back,” Bruce answered bitterly.

“I guess not. There’s no need to feel so bad, Bruce. The magnet’s not a mite of use to Lurgan without the directions, and it’s Miss Egerton has them.”

IV. PARTNERS

DEEPING COTTAGE was not a cottage at all, but a small, pretty and quite modern house with a close-cut lawn and dainty flower-beds in front. Masses of rambler roses trained on a pergola screened the house from the road, and the walls were covered with Virginia and other creepers. The whole place had an air of charm and modest comfort which Bruce, sore as he was, could not help appreciating.

“She knows, don’t she?” said Colt in a low voice as the car pulled up.

“Yes. I wired her first thing,” Bruce answered.

“I guess I’ll stay outside,” said Colt. “She won’t want to be seeing more than one stranger.”

Bruce was not feeling happy as he rang the bell. For a time the trick that had been played on him, and the barefaced robbery of the magnet, had swamped all other considerations, but now he was remembering the girl again and feeling desperately sorry for her.

A middle-aged woman opened the door. Her pleasant face was marred with tears.

“Mr. Carey? Yes, sir. Miss Silvia is waiting for you,” she said in a low voice. “This way, if you please.”

The room which Bruce entered was a very charming one. There was not one piece of furniture or ornament in it of any particular value, yet all was so well and tastefully arranged that the whole impression was delightful.

But Bruce had no eyes for anything except for the girl, who rose from a chair by the window and came towards him. Somehow it had never occurred to him that Silvia Egerton might be young and pretty. This girl was quite young, not more than 20, and, in spite of the deep sorrow on her face, much more than pretty. She was beautiful. Her beauty, too, was of a very uncommon type. Hair the colour of burnished copper contrasted with eyes of real Irish blue, while her complexion was almost transparent in its perfection.

Her mouth was perhaps a trifle too large, but Bruce’s only thought at the moment was how delightfully those lips would curve in a smile.

Yet it was not the perfection of feature which made Silvia Egerton’s chief charm. It was her frank, sweet, open look, so that at first glance Bruce was certain that the soul and spirit of her were as perfect as her face and form.

“It is very–very kind of you to come,” she said, and gave him her hand. Her voice was just as perfect as the rest of her–low in tone, yet beautifully clear and distinct.

Bruce, who for the moment had been standing stock still positively staring at her, pulled himself together. “I am only glad to have been able to,” he answered. “And–and I am so sorry for you, Miss Egerton.”