The Table E-Book

Edgar Wallace

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

Beschreibung

Here is Edgar Wallace’s famous stage-play as told by Robert Curtis in story form with all the dramatic excitement and suspense that thrilled theatre-goers. Robert Curtis was the private secretary to British crime writer Edgar Wallace. Curtis and Wallace met for the first time in 1913, before parting following the outbreak of World War One, as Curtis had to do his military service. In 1918 he was reunited with Wallace who employed him as his secretary, he had the task of copying out Wallace’s dictations, this task he accomplished at such a speed that he was known as the fastest secretary in England. After Wallace’s death, he completed some of Wallace’s unfinished manuscripts and turned several plays and film scripts into novels in the style of Wallace as well as writing several original novels.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER I

THREE times within three minutes Dinkie Lane looked at his watch. The watch was characteristic of Dinkie Lane. It was small, jewelled, fastened to his wrist by a thin gold bracelet, and was just a little too ornate and too delicate not to look out of place on a man’s wrist.

In the same way, everything about Dinkie Lane just missed being right. His trousers were a shade too full and too beautifully creased. The shoulders of his coat were a trifle too square, and the waist just a little too emphasised. The diamonds in his gold ring and tie-pin were too large, and the hair in front of his ears was trained to grow just a little too far down his cheekbones. He had small, delicate hands, rather too well manicured, and there was something effeminate about his thin, sallow face beneath his black hair, which was brushed straight back from his forehead and dressed with rather too much brilliantine.

Dinkie might have been taken for anything except the one thing for which he wished to be taken. No one in the lounge of the Grand Hotel, Dinneford, where Dinkie Lane was seated at a table, nervously fingering a glass of whisky and soda, could possibly have mistaken him for a gentleman.

Lorna Sherwood, who lounged in a chair beside him, might also have been taken for almost anything, and in her twenty-four years of life had been a good many things: shop assistant, mannequin, artist’s model, dancing partner. At the present moment, as she sat smoking a cigarette and watching Dinkie Lane, with the hint of a smile on her lips, she might have passed equally well as a member of any one of these professions. As in the case of Dinkie, everything about Lorna gave the impression of being just a little overdone. Her hair was too perfectly golden for anyone–at least for any woman–not to suspect peroxide. Her lips had been treated just a shade too lavishly with lipstick that was a little too vivid, and the red varnish on her long, pointed nails was slightly too bright.

None the less, Lorna Sherwood was a beautiful woman, with a face and figure at which most men looked at least twice.

She took her cigarette from between her lips, and her smile, as she gazed at Dinkie Lane, suggested an amused tolerance.

“What’s biting you, Dinkie?”

The young man, who had been staring at his glass, glanced up at her and shrugged.

“Nothing’s wrong with me, Lorna. Why?”

“You don’t seem able to keep your eyes off your watch, that’s all. You’re getting nervous, Dinkie, that’s your trouble. Perhaps it’s the district.”

Dinkie Lane frowned.

“I don’t get you, Lorna. What’s the district got to do with it? It’s all this hanging about–waiting. Why the devil can’t we get a move on?”

Lorna glanced at her watch.

“Twelve o’clock was the time arranged, Dinkie,” she said, “and that doesn’t mean five minutes to twelve or five minutes past. You can’t expect me to alter my programme just because you’re getting jumpy. The truth is, my lad, you’re not cut out for this game. You’re too sensitive and highly strung, and there’s no knowing when your nerves may get the better of you. Unreliable, Dinkie, that’s what you are. And this part of the country seems to make you ten times worse than you usually are.”

Dinkie emptied his glass and set it down on the table.

“You said that before, Lorna, and I don’t get you.”

“Princetown,” smiled Lorna–“Dartmoor. It’s only ten miles from here, and I’ve an idea you don’t like getting even as close as this.”

Dinkie lighted a cigarette.

“Dartmoor means nothing in my young life,” he said.

“No? Well, it may mean a good deal before your life’s much older. I wouldn’t forget it if I were you. Whenever you think of Dartmoor, just remember Mickey Stone. Remember, he may be in Dartmoor now, but he won’t be there always; and when he comes out, I’ll be sorry for anyone who’s tried to double-cross him.”

“Who’s tried to double-cross him? Not me!”

“No? Listen, Dinkie; I’m giving you a straight tip. Last night, someone tried the door of my room. If it happens again, Mickey’s going to hear of it. Don’t get wrong ideas about things, that’s all. Mickey’s the only man who matters in my young life, and I’m not accepting any substitute. Get that clear.”

Dinkie Lane grinned.

“Oh, come off it, Lorna. That sort of talk cuts no ice. When a fellow and a girl run around together the same as we’ve been running around–”

Lorna suddenly leaned towards him. Her eyes had lost their look of amused tolerance.

“Get things straight, Dinkie, once and for all. I’ve let you run around with me because it suited me, because I could make use of you, because I had to have a partner of some sort–you can’t get far in this racket without a partner. You’ve done your job and you’ve been paid for it in hard cash, but if you think there’s any more to it than that, the sooner you get rid of the idea the better.”

“Oh, all right,” said Lane sullenly. “There’s no need to work yourself up about it.”

He glanced at his watch again. Lorna leaned back in her chair with a smile.

“There’s still ten minutes to go, Dinkie, so you’d better use them to get a grip on yourself. I don’t want any mistake this time.”

“Mistake?”

“I don’t want any shooting–see? Shooting isn’t safe in this country. That last affair at the filling station might have landed us both in a nasty jam, just because you lost your head and fired. If you’d kept cool and done as I told you we’d have got clean away with no fuss.”

Dinkie made no reply. He tipped some whisky into his glass and was just raising it to his lips when Lorna took it from his hand and emptied the contents into her own glass.

“That sort of thing won’t help you. You’re having no more until the job’s finished.”

The man flushed angrily and his fist clenched. Then, with a shrug, he lolled back in his chair and lapsed into silence. For five minutes neither spoke. Then suddenly Dinkie sprang to his feet.

“For God’s sake, Lorna, let’s get the job done!” he exclaimed. “I’m not like you–you’ve got no nerves–and this waiting gets me down. Let’s go and get it finished!”

The girl consulted her watch.

“It’s five minutes to twelve,” she announced calmly, “so perhaps we’d better be moving.”

Outside the door of the Grand Hotel a long, low two-seater coupe stood by the curb. Lorna got into it, seating herself at the wheel. Dinkie Lane got in beside her and a moment later it glided off.

Lorna drove slowly along the High Street. Halfway along it, as they passed a building on the other side of the road, with windows which bore the lettering: “Devon and District Bank,” Lorna gave it a prolonged stare.

“It looks dead easy, Dinkie,” she said. “There are no cars outside and not much traffic in the street. But remember–no shooting. We’ve just got to walk in, show a gun, take what we want and walk quietly out, and we’ll be well away before anyone gets wind of what’s happening.”

Lane, sitting with his hands clasped together, staring through the windscreen, nodded.

“All right, Lorna. I understand,” he said irritably. “I’m not going to let you down.”

“You won’t mean to, but I’m not so sure you won’t do it,” replied the girl. “I fancy we’d be safer if I took away your gun. But I suppose I must risk it. We’ll take the next side street and come back into the main road on the same side as the bank.”

She swung the car round the corner. A few moments later it reappeared in the High Street, travelling in the opposite direction. Outside the Devon and District Bank it pulled up.

Lorna consulted her watch again.

“It’s just on twelve,” she said. “But we won’t be in a hurry.”

“Hang it, Lorna, two or three minutes can’t make any difference–”

“Two or three minutes can make all the difference,” interrupted Lorna. “This isn’t my first job, Dinkie, and I know what I’m doing. The bank messenger goes to lunch at twelve o’clock and I’m waiting until he’s out of the way. He’s got a desk near the entrance, and I’d rather know that desk’s empty. Keep an eye on the door and tell me when he leaves.”

For two or three minutes Lane sat, twisted round in his seat, his gaze fixed on the door of the bank. Then, as the door swung open and the messenger came out and went off along the street, he turned to the girl.

“He’s gone.”

She nodded.

“Then push off and do your job.”

Dinkie got out, hesitated a moment, and then turned to put his head through the window of the car.

“Leave the engine running, Lorna.”

She smiled.

“You think of everything, don’t you, Dinkie? As a matter of fact, I meant to stop the engine and lose the ignition key. Get busy–and if you let off that gun of yours I’ll let off mine in your direction.” Dinkie turned away, crossed the pavement, and, pushing open the swing door of the bank, went inside. A few moments later Lorna got out of the car, took a swift glance up and down the street, and then, at a leisurely pace, followed him into the bank.

The Dinneford branch of the Devon and District Bank was not a very large one. Its counter accommodated three cashiers behind the brass grille. At the end of the counter, farthest from the door, was a small office partitioned off with frosted glass, which housed the manager. Close to the door was a small, high desk, with a stool behind it, at which the messenger sat.

As Lorna entered she saw that the two cashiers farthest from the door were engaged with customers, and that Dinkie was standing at the counter beside the first cashier, who was absorbed in counting a thick wad of notes.

Moving slowly forward, she paused about three yards from where Dinkie was standing, her back towards the frosted window that faced the street, the door on her left and Lane on her right.

The man glanced round, saw her standing there, slipped his right hand inside his coat and rested his left arm on the counter, so that his back was towards the customers who were farther along it.

“Say, you!”

The cashier looked up with an expression of surprise on his face. Cashiers of the Devon and District Bank were not accustomed to being addressed in that way, and he gave Dinkie a look which clearly conveyed is disapproval.

“I beg your pardon?” he said politely.

“There’s no harm in doing that,” said Lane quietly. “And now just do as I tell you.”

The cashier raised his eyebrows.

“I beg your pardon?” he repeated.

“Take a look at my breast-pocket,” said Dinkie, “and then do as I tell you.”

The cashier’s eyes travelled from Dinkie’s face to his breast-pocket. There they paused, opening very wide, while the cashier’s hands gripped the edge of the counter and a queer sort of feeling ran down his spine, almost as though someone had poured cold water on it.

Just beside Dinkie’s breast-pocket he saw a little slit in the coat, and, thrust through the slit, with no more than half an inch of it showing, was the blue-black muzzle of a revolver.

Now, the cashier knew exactly what he ought to do. He had been fully instructed as to his conduct, if he should ever find himself facing a revolver across the counter of the bank, and he had been perfectly certain that, if ever such a crisis should arise, he would act in strict accordance with his instructions.

Just beneath the counter was a bell-push; he had only to press it and his duty as a loyal and devoted servant of the Devon and District Bank would have been fulfilled.

But he always imagined, too, that if ever the crisis arose he would go far beyond the mere execution of his duty. Not one gunman in a hundred, as he had often explained to his fellow employees, would fire if it came to the point, therefore the right way to deal with such ruffians was to call their bluff, press the alarm button and then leap over the counter to grapple with them.

But somehow, with that half-inch of blue-black barrel pointing at him, leaping the counter and grappling with the ruffian seemed to need far more nerve than he had imagined. Moreover, he had an uncomfortable feeling that if he tried to discharge his duty by pressing the alarm button the thin, sallow-faced youth on the opposite side of the grille might discharge his revolver first.

“Push that money under the grille–quick–and keep your hands on the counter!”

The cashier’s hands did not move. He glanced along the counter at the other clerks, who were busily engaged with customers, glanced quickly at the desk where the messenger sat when on duty, and at the glass-partitioned office of the manager. Then he looked back at Dinkie.

“Work fast. Push them under! Do you hear?”

Still the cashier hesitated, staring at Dinkie as though unable to believe that he was actually face to face with a gunman who was calling on him to hand him the contents of his till. But Dinkie was real enough.

“Be quick, or be dead!”

The muzzle of the revolver came out another inch. There was something so menacing in the movement that the cashier forgot completely his duty to the bank and his preconceived notions as to how to deal with a gunman; with his gaze still fixed on Dinkie’s threatening eyes, he slowly pushed the pile of notes across the counter and under the grille.

A quick movement of his left hand, and Dinkie had snatched the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. As he did so, the cashier suddenly ducked beneath the counter and the next instant a bell rang noisily.

Dinkie swung round, pulling his revolver from inside his coat. For a few seconds customers, clerks and cashiers gazed at him, motionless. Then one of the customers, a big, burly man who looked like a farmer, moved towards him.

“Stay quiet, you!” came Lorna’s voice. “One step more and I’ll drop you!”

The big, burly man stood still, and again, just for a few seconds, every figure was motionless, as if the Dinneford branch of the Devon and District Bank were filled with waxworks.

Lorna, revolver in hand, was smiling faintly as she surveyed them.

“Come on, Dinkie. Let’s beat it.”

Slowly they backed towards the door, their guns still covering the clerks and customers. Then, just as they reached it, the door of the manager’s office was flung open, a man stepped quickly out and raised his hand, and there came in rapid succession the crash of two shots.

“Come on, Dinkie–quick!”

Lorna turned, dashed through the swing-door and ran towards the car. Glancing back, she saw her confederate burst through the swing-door of the bank. A moment later came the crack of another shot, a gasp, and, turning her head, she saw Dinkie collapse on the pavement. She paused, and was about to go back to him when she saw him raise himself on an elbow.

“Beat it, kid! Beat it!” he shouted, and fell backwards.

Lorna sprang to the car, wrenched open the door and flung herself into the driving seat. The next moment the car was speeding along the High Street, with gears screaming and smoke pouring from its exhaust.

The manager, flourishing his revolver, ran into the middle of the road and fired a couple of wild shots after the car. Then, as, gathering speed, it disappeared round the bend in the road, he turned and thrust his way through the crowd that had gathered round the entrance to the bank.

Lying on the pavement, bleeding freely from a wound in the neck, lay Dinkie. His eyes were closed, his face curiously twisted. His hand still grasped his revolver. Beside him, gazing at him with a look of utter bewilderment, was a policeman.

“What’s all this, sir?” began the constable. “This young man’s been shot.”

The bank manager, going down on his knees, began to unfasten Dinkie’s collar.

“Yes, I shot him, constable,” he said. “It’s a hold-up. He was getting away with several hundred pounds. You’d better ‘phone for the ambulance–use my telephone.”

As the policeman went into the bank a large coupe drew up by the curb, and a man got out and thrust his way through the crowd. He was a striking-looking figure, tall, broad-shouldered, erect, with strong, clear-cut features, and just the hint of greyness showing about his temples. His eyes were steel-grey and his lips hard, rather cruel. In his left eye he wore a monocle, which enhanced his air of authority and aloofness. Inside the circle of onlookers he paused, gazing down at Dinkie and the manager kneeling beside him.

“Can I be of any assistance?”

The manager looked up.

“There’s been a hold-up,” he said agitatedly. “This man got shot. We want a doctor.”

“I am a doctor–Dr. Raymond Allerman. You may have heard of me.”

The manager nodded.

“Yes, of course. This is a very dreadful business, Dr. Allerman. I shot him–I had to. My duty to the bank–”

“Quite,” interrupted Dr. Allerman calmly. “Get him inside and I’ll have a look at him.”

The manager got to his feet, and, with the help of one of the cashiers, picked up Dinkie, carried him into the bank and laid him on the table in the manager’s sanctum.

Allerman followed them in, removed his hat, hung it on the manager’s hat-peg and proceeded to the leisurely removal of his gloves. After a careful inspection of his finger-nails he turned his attention to the wounded man.

The examination did not take him very many seconds.

“There’s nothing much to be done for him,” he said. “He’s almost gone.”

“For God’s sake, doctor,” began the manager, “you must do something. I shot him, and I shall never be able to forgive myself–”

Dr. Allerman cut him short with a gesture.

“No matter what I did,” he said, “he wouldn’t last many minutes. It’s better to leave him as he is. So you shot him, did you? Well, there’s no need to let that distress you. If you hadn’t shot him he would have shot you or someone else.” He smiled rather grimly. “And I imagine that a Devon and District Bank manager is a more valuable member of the community than this kind of blackguard. Was he alone?”

“No; there were two of them–this man and a girl. The girl got away.”

Dinkie moved and gave a low groan; then his eyelids fluttered and opened and his gaze wandered from the manager to Allerman.

“Say, are you a doctor?”

Allerman nodded.

“How long have I got?”

Not a muscle of Allerman’s face moved. He was staring at Dinkie as though he were watching some interesting specimen under the microscope.

Lane tried to struggle to a sitting position but got no further than resting on an elbow.

“Damn you! How long have I got?” he repeated angrily.

A faint smile touched Allerman’s lips.

“Five minutes at the most.”

The dying man stared at Allerman incredulously.

“Five minutes! For God’s sake, doctor, can’t you do something? You can’t let me lie here and die and not do a damned thing...”

He sank back and lay still for a few moments with his eyes closed. Then he opened them again.

“You didn’t get Lorna, did you?”

The doctor shook his head, and a smile of satisfaction spread over Dinkie’s face.

“She’s a swell kid, Lorna,” he said weakly, and suddenly went limp.

Allerman turned away, put on his hat, and, with a cynical smile on his lips, began drawing on his gloves.

“That’s one less for the State to keep,” he said.

CHAPTER II

PAUL BARLOW would not have been particularly surprised if, when he reached the front door of Dr. Allerman’s house, he had found it separated from the drive by a moat and protected by a portcullis. After the high fence, topped with barbed wire, which surrounded the place, and the massive nail-studded gate which stood at the entrance to the drive, he had expected to find that the house itself was more or less in keeping with the approach to it.

But there was nothing extraordinary about the house. It was a big, rambling place, solidly built and with rather a gloomy appearance, which had at one time, no doubt, been a farm-house, but there were no signs of any such elaborate precautions against intruders as he had remarked when he entered the grounds.

Walking up the two steps that led to the portico, he dumped his bag on the ground and pulled the massive wrought-iron handle that hung beside the front door. He heard a bell clang inside the house, and, while he waited for the door to be opened, turned his attention to the garden. He noted that it was overgrown with weeds and totally uncared for, and decided that, if Dr. Allerman had no objection, he would employ some of his leisure in doing some digging, and thus at the same time keep his muscles from getting flabby and create for Dr. Allerman a garden which would be less like an African jungle. Probably the doctor had not noticed that grass grew thick on the gravel paths and the borders were a riot of groundsel and chickweed. From what he had heard of Allerman, he lived with an eye glued to a microscope and never noticed anything that lay outside the field of vision of his lens.

As no one had opened the door, Paul set the bell clanging again. This time, after a few moments’ silence, he heard footsteps approaching and stooped to pick up his bag. As he straightened himself, the door was opened, and it was all Paul could do to smother an exclamation of surprise as he saw the figure that stood framed in the doorway.

It was the figure of a man of massive proportions, unusually tall, with the shoulders of a bullock and the chest of a prize-fighter. He wore a white uniform jacket buttoned right up to his chin, and it seemed to Paul that at any moment it might burst under the strain imposed on it by the gigantic mass of bone and muscle which was confined within it. The man had enormous hands, with thick, gnarled fingers, a bullet head with a close-cropped thatch of grey, bristly hair, and quite the most repulsive face which Paul had ever seen. The general impression of the face at first glance was that it was an utterly expressionless mask, but a moment later Paul realised that the enormous mouth, with its pendulous lower lip, the broad snub nose, the small, deep-set eyes, the prominent cheek-bones, the low forehead and the huge lobeless ears that seemed to be permanently cocked forward, combined to produce an expression of brutality and cunning such as he had never before seen on any human face.

For some moments Paul could only stare in astonishment at this grotesque caricature of a man. Then with an effort, he pulled himself together.

“Is Dr. Allerman in?” he enquired.

The man’s beady eyes scrutinised him keenly, but he made no reply.

“Dr. Allerman’s expecting me,” added Paul. “My name’s Barlow. I’m his new assistant.”

For several seconds the man continued to stare at him. Then he stepped back, and, opening the door wide, signed to Paul to enter.

The visitor stepped inside and the man, closing the door, turned, and without a glance at Paul set off along the hall. Paul, undecided for a moment whether to stay where he was or follow the man, saw that he had paused outside a door and was signing to him to go forward. Placing his bag on the floor, he crossed the hall. As he reached the door the servant flung it open and waved him into the room.

It was a large apartment, beautifully furnished, with a thick, soft carpet and deep arm-chairs. Against one wall was a grand piano. There was an air of restful comfort about the place, and it struck Paul that, however uninviting might be the outside of Dr. Allerman’s house, there was no fault to be found with the inside.

He walked across to the fireplace and turned, to find the servant standing rigidly at attention by the door.

“Tell Dr. Allerman I’m here, please.”

For the first time, in a deep, throaty voice, the grotesque creature spoke.

“The master’s out.”

“You expect him in soon?”

“Yes.”

“Then as soon as he comes in please tell him I’m here.”

“Yes.”

“Barlow is the name–Dr. Barlow.”

“Barlow,” repeated the man in a mechanical voice.

“And in the meantime,” added Paul, “you might tell Miss Fayre that I’m here.”

“Yes.”

The man stood motionless for some seconds, his gaze fixed on Paul. Then, as the latter took no further notice of him, he suddenly performed a quick military about-turn, clicked his heels together smartly and strode from the room.

Paul stared after him in astonishment. If that was a fair specimen of Dr. Allerman’s servants his household must be a queer outfit. He was more like some hideous mechanical figure than a man–the sort of grotesque, unnatural creature which might result if some crazy scientist had tried to create a man and had failed in the attempt. No wonder Dr. Allerman had not taken the trouble to dig a moat and erect a portcullis: with a monstrosity like that about the place he need have no fear of intruders.

The young doctor wandered round the room, inspecting the few pictures on the walls and the pile of music on the piano–Chopin, Brahms, Delius, Chopin–and that repulsive creature that had opened the door to him! Allerman must be a queer mixture. He had, of course, that reputation. Among the medical students of the hospital he was always referred to as “queer,” though no one seemed to know what form his eccentricity took; but he was recognised, not only by medical students but by the whole medical profession, as a surgeon of outstanding genius, a man whose skilful fingers could do things which no other surgeon would venture to attempt.

Paul, during his time at hospital, had more than once seen Dr. Allerman operate, and had been amazed at the man’s uncanny skill and the cool, calm, detached way in which he attempted the seemingly impossible and brilliantly succeeded.

It had always seemed to Paul that there was something inhuman–superhuman, perhaps–about the white-clad figure whose hands wielded the instruments with such unerring precision, such confidence, such calm, unhurried assurance. But even more than his hands it had been Allerman’s eyes that had arrested Paul’s attention when he had been present at one of the famous surgeon’s operations. Never once had he seen Allerman’s eyes betray the slightest hint of any emotion. They were cold, hard, perhaps a little cruel, and had always made Paul think that, instead of using a knife on some delicate organ of the human body, where the least slip or misjudgment must mean death to the patient, Allerman might well be using a spanner on the mechanism of his car.

And never once during an operation had he heard Allerman speak. The man’s whole mind, when he was working, seemed to be one-pointed, concentrated on the spot where his knife touched, and he appeared to be utterly unaware of the presence of others in the theatre, except when he laid aside an instrument and, without raising his head, held out a hand for another.

He had been amazingly lucky to get this job with Allerman within a few months of becoming qualified. Few of the men who had qualified at the same time would not have been glad to change places with him.

As Paul stood staring thoughtfully through the window at the overgrown garden the door behind him opened and Jeanette Fayre came slowly and quietly into the room. Closing the door silently behind her, she moved across the floor towards the young man at the window. She walked with the aid of a stick, limping slightly. She moved listlessly, as though the effort of crossing the room were hardly worth making.

Rather tall, slim, with a face that was unnaturally pale, and hair which would have been gold if it had not been so lustreless, a casual observer would have seen nothing beautiful in the face of Jeanette Fayre; but one who looked more closely would have seen that, in spite of her thin cheeks and the drawn look about her eyes, the loveliness was there–in the gentleness of her eyes and the wistful tenderness of her mouth. Half-way across the room she paused.

“Paul!”

The young man turned, saw her standing there smiling at him, and went eagerly to her and took her hand.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Jeanette.”

She squeezed his hand and nodded.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Paul, after all this time. But why are you here?”

“Don’t you know?”

She shook her head.

“Hasn’t Allerman told you?”

“I didn’t even know, Paul, that you knew Dr. Allerman.”

Paul took her arm.

“Come and sit down, Jeanette, and I’ll tell you myself.”

He led her to the settee and sat down beside her.

“I always thought confidential secretaries knew everything, Jeanette. Do you really mean to tell me that Allerman didn’t let you know I was coming?”

“He has never mentioned you to me, Paul. But he doesn’t tell me everything. I’ve been his secretary for three years now, but there are still a great many things I don’t know about Dr. Allerman.”

“Didn’t he tell you he was engaging an assistant?” She glanced at him quickly.

“Yes, he did mention that. But, Paul, you don’t mean that you–”

“I am the assistant, Jeanette. Dr. Meredith managed it for me. He’s a friend of Allerman’s, and he thinks I’m a coming young man and all that sort of thing, so when he heard that Allerman was looking for an assistant to help him with his experiments he mentioned my name to him. I saw Allerman last week and fixed it up–-and here I am.”

The girl was gazing at him with a troubled, rather frightened expression in her eyes.

“Aren’t you glad, Jeanette?”

“I wish I had known, Paul–sooner.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t have let you come. I wouldn’t have let you take the job. I’d have warned you–”

“Warned me? Good heavens, Jeanette, you don’t seem to realise! This is the biggest bit of luck that could possibly have come my way. Why, there are hundreds of men who would give their right hand for a chance like this. Allerman’s the greatest surgeon in the country–-probably in the world. I shall learn more here, working with him, in six months than I should learn in ten years anywhere else. It will absolutely be the making of me.”

Jeanette shook her head.

“I wish you hadn’t come.”

“But why? You must see it’s a chance that I couldn’t possibly afford to miss. Allerman is known all over the world, and the man who’s lucky enough to work with him–”

She cut him short with a gesture.

“You mustn’t work with him, Paul. You mustn’t stay here. You must tell him you’ve changed your mind and he must get some other assistant. You must, Paul.”

She was terribly in earnest and Paul gazed at her in bewilderment.

“I don’t understand, Jeanette,” he said. “I thought you’d be delighted that I’d got the job. I thought you’d understand that it’s a job in a million.”

She smiled faintly.

“A job in a million! Yes, it probably is that.”

“Yet you want me to turn it down?”

“You must turn it down, Paul.” And then, as he began to protest again: “Oh, don’t ask me why. I can’t explain. It’s just that I have a feeling that you shouldn’t take the job–that you wouldn’t be happy here–that later on you would wish you’d never got mixed up with Dr. Allerman and his experiments.”

“But–“ he began.

“I know. He may be all you say he is, Paul–a genius–the greatest surgeon in the world–a man who succeeds where other doctors wouldn’t even have the courage to try. But I have a feeling–oh, I don’t know. It must all sound vague and silly and unreasonable, but I don’t want you to take the job. You’d be far happier doing what you always intended to do–setting up in practice on your own–”

“Curing mumps and measles and chicken-pox?” smiled Paul. “Removing tonsils and adenoids and an occasional appendix?” He shook his head. “I’d die of boredom, Jeanette. I’m not cut out for that sort of thing. I’ve always meant to specialise, to go in for research work. I’m an explorer, a pioneer, and I’d be a fool to chuck away the chance of going exploring with Allerman. And apart from that, there’s the money. Allerman’s paying me well–a thousand a year to begin with. It would be a long time, Jeanette, before I made a thousand a year out of mumps and measles.”

“But there’s no hurry, Paul. You don’t need a thousand a year now, and you’d much better wait–”

The young man laid his hand on hers.

“That’s just where you’re wrong, my dear. I do need a thousand a year now, and I’m tired of waiting. I’ve kept you waiting long enough; with a thousand a year there’s no need for us to wait any longer. I shall talk to Allerman. The arrangement was that I should live here, but I don’t suppose he’d insist on it if I told him that I was getting married. I could find a little house somewhere near by–”

She raised a hand to stop him.

“Paul, please!” she begged. “Don’t let’s start that all over again. We’ve talked of it so often–”

“And now we’ve done with talking about it, Jeanette. We’re going to get married.”

She shook her head.

“We’re going to get married,” repeated Paul. “No, don’t say anything, dear, because I know all the stupid things you’re going to say, and not one of them can make the least difference. You’ve said them all before, and none of them has ever made the least difference. I still want to marry you just as much as I ever did.” He smiled. “And you still want to marry me, Jeanette, don’t you?”

She shot him a smiling glance.

“Does it matter what I want, Paul? If I wanted to marry you more than anything else on earth, that wouldn’t make the least difference, would it? You know it wouldn’t. It’s dear of you, Paul, but you know it’s not possible.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort, Jeanette. Listen, dear. If you were strong–”

“But I’m not strong, and that makes all the difference. I know what you were going to say: if I were strong and healthy like other girls, if I didn’t have to hobble about with a stick, I would not refuse to marry you. That’s quite true, Paul. It wouldn’t be the least use denying it, because you know it’s true. I’d marry you and thank God for making life so beautiful. But I’m not strong.” Again she smiled at him and her fingers touched his cheek. “And I’m not going to let you play the chivalrous knight for my sake, Paul.”

“It’s not a question of chivalry.”

“Then it simply means that you don’t realise what you would be undertaking–and missing. But you would realise later on, and when that happened you’d be bound to regret. No, Paul, I’m not risking it. If I were beautiful–”

“You are beautiful, Jeanette.”

“If I had a beautiful body–strong and healthy and able to give you children–But why talk about it? It’s hopeless, and we’re only hurting ourselves.”

“I don’t agree,” replied Paul. “I don’t believe it’s hopeless, Jeanette. I don’t believe there’s any reason why you shouldn’t have a body just as strong and healthy as anyone else. Nowadays doctors can do so much, and now I’ve got money I’m going to do what I have always wanted to do: scour the country–the world if necessary–for someone who can make you as strong and healthy and beautiful as you want to be. There must be someone. I’m going to talk to Allerman about it and see if he can help.”

She drew her hand away sharply.

“Oh, no, Paul–please–not Dr. Allerman.”

“Why on earth not? He’s marvellous! I’ve seen him at work, and it’s hard to believe there’s anything he can’t do.”

She shook her head.

“Not Dr. Allerman,” she repeated. And then, as Paul gazed at her with a puzzled look: “It wouldn’t be the least use troubling Dr. Allerman any more. He has examined me several times and has told me that he can do nothing. If Dr. Allerman can’t cure me, nobody can. Don’t let’s talk about it any more. Just do as I ask and give up this job–go away somewhere and try to forget–”

“I’m not going away, and I’m not going to give up the job and try to forget. I’m staying here as Dr. Allerman’s assistant, and I’m going to spend every spare moment I get trying to make you change your mind. That’s all settled, so we won’t argue about it. Now tell me one or two things. Who’s the animated gargoyle who let me in?”

“You mean Stark? Oh, he’s the servant–the only one except the cook.”

“Seems a queer sort of fish.”

“If you really mean to stay here, Paul, you’ll find that lots of things are queer. Stark is only one of them.”

“But where on earth did Allerman find him? I expected the door to be opened by a butler, or something pretty smart in the servant line, and when I saw that monstrosity I nearly turned tail and ran away.”

“He’s a wonderful servant,” Jeanette told him. “Dr. Allerman trusts him absolutely, and I’ve never known Stark do a single thing wrong since I’ve been here. He’s like a perfect machine that never makes a mistake. He’s rather uncanny really. And he’s utterly devoted to the doctor. I don’t know for certain, but Dr. Allerman once hinted to me that Stark is the result of one of his successful experiments. If he hadn’t happened to come across Stark,” he said, “Stark would have been dead years ago.”

“If that’s so, no wonder the man’s attached to him. But I can’t say I like the look of the brute. He seems hardly human. And now, tell me, Jeanette, since you’re Allerman’s secretary, what lines is he working on? What’s he trying to get at with his experiments?” Her eyes met his gravely.

“Don’t you know, Paul?”

“Well, of course, I’ve a rough sort of idea. I know he’s a brain specialist.”

“And without knowing what sort of work he’s doing you’ve accepted the post of assistant to him?”

“You bet I have! Allerman’s name is good enough for me, and whatever he’s doing is bound to be interesting. But I suppose he doesn’t talk to you about his experiments and you can’t tell me much more than I know already?”

Jeanette sighed.

“I can’t tell you anything at all.”

There came a sharp knock. The door opened and Stark stepped quickly into the room, clicked his heels together and stood stiffly at attention.

“The master comes,” he announced.

CHAPTER III

AS the car roared along the Dinneford High Street Lorna crouched forward over the wheel, gripping it so hard that it hurt her hands, and steering it, when steering was necessary, with quick, jerky movements that set the machine swaying dangerously. Once she glanced back through the rear window, caught a glimpse of the crowd that was beginning to collect outside the bank, saw the figure of a man run into the middle of the road, his arm raised, heard the crack of a revolver, and, again instinctively hunching her shoulders, bent over the wheel and stared steadily at the road ahead.

Had there been any considerable traffic in the street Lorna’s erratic steering must have landed her into trouble; but the roadway was almost deserted, and as she sped along it at more than forty miles an hour the worst thing that happened to her was that the policeman at the cross-roads stuck his hands on his hips and stared after the car with a wealth of official disapproval in his stare.

Once she was free of the town, she felt, she would be fairly safe. She could dump the car somewhere in the country and have a good chance of getting clean away. If they took it into their heads to give chase–well, she wouldn’t worry about that: this ‘bus could do ninety, and she had enough petrol on board for a hundred miles’ run.

She glanced at the petrol gauge on the dashboard, saw that it registered five gallons and was thankful that she had taken the precaution of having the tank filled that morning.

She was soon clear of the town, and, as the houses disappeared, she settled back in her seat and pressed the accelerator. She knew the country well, and, with that precise attention to detail which had so irritated Dinkie Lane, had already mapped out what route she would take if things went wrong at the Devon and District Bank and she had to make a dash for it. She had calculated that before she could reach the next town news of the raid would have already got there, so that the only safe course would be to avoid any town so long as she was in the car. She had accordingly planned a route which lay along the side roads and country lanes.

She was to take a turning to the right, about ten miles out of Dinneford. At the speed at which she was travelling–just under sixty–she should reach the corner in ten minutes, and then, to all intents and purposes, she would be safe.