The Vanished Messenger E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

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

Beschreibung

Mystery novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim involving a handicapped art collector. The book concerns recently demobbed and down on his luck Major Owston, who becomes the bodyguard of the deformed amoral art collector Martin Hews. Enabled by his enormous wealth to buy the world’s most beautiful works of art. Hews is plunged into a bitter rivalry with a gang leader simply known as „Joseph”. This is a thrilling and tense story of a struggle between master brains, of gang wars, of deceit, of murder, while the sinister Martin Hews sits in his fortified treasure house, and the love story of Beatrice lends romance and beauty. It presents a fascinating picture of unexpected turns and twists.

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 XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

CHAPTER I

There were very few people upon Platform Number Twenty-one of Liverpool Street Station at a quarter to nine on the evening of April 2–possibly because the platform in question is one of the most remote and least used in the great terminus. The station-master, however, was there himself, with an inspector in attendance. A dark, thick-set man, wearing a long travelling ulster and a Homburg hat, and carrying in his hand a brown leather dressing-case, across which was painted in black letters the name MR. JOHN P. DUNSTER, was standing a few yards away, smoking a long cigar, and, to all appearance absorbed in studying the advertisements which decorated the grimy wall on the other side of the single track. A couple of porters were seated upon a barrow which contained one solitary portmanteau. There were no signs of other passengers, no other luggage. As a matter of fact, according to the time-table, no train was due to leave the station or to arrive at it, on this particular platform, for several hours.

Down at the other end of the platform the wooden barrier was thrust back, and a porter with some luggage upon a barrow made his noisy approach. He was followed by a tall young man in a grey tweed suit and a straw hat on which were the colours of a famous cricket club.

The inspector watched them curiously. “Lost his way, I should think,” he observed.

The station-master nodded. “It looks like the young man who missed the boat train,” he remarked. “Perhaps he has come to beg a lift.”

The young man in question made steady progress up the platform. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, and his forehead was contracted in a frown. As he approached more closely, he singled out Mr. John P. Dunster, and motioning his porter to wait, crossed to the edge of the track and addressed him.

“Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?”

Mr. John P. Dunster turned at once and faced his questioner. He did so without haste–with a certain deliberation, in fact–yet his eyes were suddenly bright and keen. He was neatly dressed, with the quiet precision which seems as a rule to characterise the travelling American. He was apparently of a little less than middle-age, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, with every appearance of physical strength. He seemed like a man on wires, a man on the alert, likely to miss nothing.

“Are you Mr. John P. Dunster?” the youth asked.

“I carry my visiting-card in my hand, sir,” the other replied, swinging his dressing-case around. “My name is John P. Dunster.”

The young man’s expression was scarcely ingratiating. To a natural sullenness was added now the nervous distaste of one who approaches a disagreeable task.

“I want, if I may, to ask you a favour,” he continued. “If you don’t feel like granting it, please say no and I’ll be off at once. I am on my way to The Hague. I was to have gone by the boat train which left half an hour ago. I had taken a seat, and they assured me that the train would not leave for at least ten minutes, as the mails weren’t in. I went down the platform to buy some papers and stood talking for a moment or two with a man whom I know. I suppose I must have been longer than I thought, or they must have been quicker than they expected with the mailbags. Anyhow, when I came back the train was moving. They would not let me jump in. I could have done it easily, but that fool of an inspector over there held me.”

“They are very strict in this country, I know.”

Mr. Dunster agreed, without change of expression. “Please go on.”

“I saw you arrive–just too late for the train. While I was swearing at the inspector, I heard you speak to the station-master. Since then I have made inquiries. I understand that you have ordered a special train to Harwich.”

Mr. John P. Dunster said nothing, only his keen, clear eyes seemed all the time to be questioning this gloomy-looking but apparently harmless young man.

“I went to the station-master’s office,” the latter continued, “and tried to persuade them to let me ride in the guard’s van of your special, but he made a stupid fuss about it, so I thought I’d better come to you. Can I beg a seat in your compartment, or anywhere in the train, as far as Harwich?”

Mr. Dunster avoided, for the moment, a direct reply. He had the air of a man who, whether reasonably or unreasonably, disliked the request which had been made to him.

“You are particularly anxious to cross to-night?” he asked.

“I am,” the youth admitted emphatically. “I never ought to have risked missing the train. I am due at The Hague to-morrow.”

Mr. John P. Dunster moved his position a little. The light from a rain-splashed gas lamp shone now full upon the face of his suppliant: a boy’s face, which would have been pleasant and even handsome but for the discontented mouth, the lowering forehead, and a shadow in the eyes, as though, boy though he certainly was in years, he had already, at some time or another, looked upon the serious things of life. His nervousness, too, was almost grotesque. He had the air of disliking immensely this asking a favour from a stranger. Mr. Dunster appreciated all these things, but there were reasons which made him slow in granting the young man’s request.

“What is the nature of your pressing business at The Hague?” he asked.

The youth hesitated.

“I am afraid,” he said grimly, “that you will not think it of much importance. I am on my way to play in a golf tournament there.”

“A golf tournament at The Hague!” Mr. Dunster repeated, in a slightly altered tone. “What is your name?”

“Gerald Fentolin.”

Mr. Dunster stood quite still for a moment. He was possessed of a wonderful memory, and he was conscious at that moment of a subtle appeal to it. Fentolin! There was something in the name which seemed to him somehow associated with the things against which he was on guard. He stood with puzzled frown, reminiscent for several minutes, unsuccessful. Then he suddenly smiled, and moving underneath the gas lamp, shook open an evening paper which he had been carrying. He turned over the pages until he arrived at the sporting items. Here, in almost the first paragraph, he saw the name which had happened to catch his eye a moment or two before:

GOLF AT THE HAGUE

Among the entrants for the tournament which commences to-morrow, are several well-known English players, including Mr. Barwin, Mr. Parrott, Mr. Hillard and Mr. Gerald Fentolin.

Mr. Dunster folded up the newspaper and replaced it in his pocket. He turned towards the young man.

“So you’re a golfer, are you?”

“I play a bit,” was the somewhat indifferent reply.

Mr. Dunster turned to another part of the paper and pointed to the great black head-lines.

“Seems a queer thing for a young fellow like you to be worrying about games,” he remarked. “I haven’t been in this country more than a few hours, but I expected to find all the young men getting ready.”

“Getting ready for what?”

“Why, to fight, of course,” Mr. Dunster replied. “Seems pretty clear that there’s an expeditionary force being fitted out, according to this evening’s paper, somewhere up in the North Sea. The only Englishman I’ve spoken to on this side was willing to lay me odds that war would be declared within a week.”

The young man’s lack of interest was curious.

“I am not in the army,” he said. “It really doesn’t affect me.”

Mr. Dunster stared at him.

“You’ll forgive my curiosity,” he said, “but say, is there nothing you could get into and fight if this thing came along?”

“Nothing at all, that I know of,” the youth replied coolly. “War is an affair which concerns only the military and naval part of two countries. The civil population–”

“Plays golf, I suppose,” Mr. Dunster interrupted. “Young man, I haven’t been in England for some years, and you rather take my breath away. All the same, you can come along with me as far as Harwich.”

The young man showed signs of some satisfaction. “I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he declared. “I promise you I won’t be in the way.”

The station-master, who had been looking through a little pile of telegrams brought to him by a clerk from his office, now turned towards them. His expression was a little grave.

“Your special will be backing down directly, sir,” he announced, “but I am sorry to say that we hear very bad accounts of the line. They say that this is only the fag-end of the storm that we are getting here, and that it’s been raging for nearly twenty-four hours on the east coast. I doubt whether the Harwich boat will be able to put off.”

“We must take our chance about that,” Dunster remarked. “If the mail boat doesn’t run, I presume there will be something else we can charter.”

The station-master looked the curiosity which he did not actually express in words.

“Money will buy most things, nowadays, sir,” he observed, “but if it isn’t fit for our mail boat, it certainly isn’t fit for anything else that can come into Harwich Harbour. However, you’ll hear what they say when you get there.”

Mr. Dunster nodded and relapsed into a taciturnity which was obviously one of his peculiarities. The young man strolled down the platform, and catching up with the inspector, touched him on the shoulder.

“Do you know who the fellow is?” he asked curiously. “It’s awfully decent of him to let me go with him, but he didn’t seem very keen about it.”

The inspector shook his head.

“No idea, sir,” he replied. “He drove up just two minutes after the train had gone, came straight into the office and ordered a special. Paid for it, too, in Bank of England notes before he went out. I fancy he’s an American, and he gave his name as John P. Dunster.”

The young man paused to light a cigarette.

“If he’s an American, I suppose that accounts for it,” he observed. “He must be in a precious hurry to get somewhere, though.”

“A night like this, too!” the inspector remarked, with a shiver. “I wouldn’t leave London myself unless I had to. They say there’s a tremendous storm blowing on the east coast. Here comes the train, sir–just one saloon and the guard’s van.”

The little train backed slowly along the platform side. The engine was splashed with mud and soaking wet. The faces of the engine-driver and his companion shone from the dripping rain. The station-master held open the door of the saloon.

“You’ve a rough journey before you, sir,” he said. “You’ll catch the boat all right, though–if it goes. The mail train was very heavy to-night. You should catch her up this side of Colchester.”

Mr. Dunster nodded.

“I am taking this young gentleman with me,” he announced shortly. “It seems that he, too, missed the train. I am much obliged to you, station-master, for your attention. Good night!”

They were about to start when Mr. Dunster once more let down the window.

“By the way,” he said, “as it is such a wild night, you will oblige me very much if you will tell the engine-driver that there will be a five pound note for himself and his companion if we catch the mail. Inspector!”

The inspector touched his hat. The station-master had turned discreetly away. He had been an inspector himself once, and sovereigns had been useful to him, too. Then the train glided from the platform side, plunged with a scream through a succession of black tunnels, and with rapidly increasing speed faced the storm.

CHAPTER II

The young man sat on one side of the saloon and Mr. John P. Dunster on the other. Although both of them were provided with a certain amount of railway literature, neither of them made any pretence at reading. The older man, with his feet upon the opposite seat and his arms folded, was looking pensively through the rain-splashed window-pane into the impenetrable darkness. The young man, although he could not ignore his companion’s unsociable instincts, was fidgety.

“There will be some floods out to-morrow,” he remarked.

Mr. Dunster turned his head and looked across the saloon. There was something in the deliberate manner of his doing so, and his hesitation before he spoke, which seemed intended to further impress upon the young man the fact that he was not disposed for conversation.

“Very likely,” was his sole reply.

Gerald Fentolin sighed as though he regretted his companion’s taciturnity and a few minutes later strolled to the farther end of the saloon. He spent some time trying to peer through the streaming window into the darkness. He chatted for a few minutes with the guard, who was, however, in a bad temper at having had to turn out and who found little to say. Then he took one of his golf clubs from the bag and indulged in several half swings. Finally he stretched himself out upon one of the seats and closed his eyes.

“May as well try to get a nap,” he yawned. “There won’t be much chance on the steamer, if it blows like this.”

Mr. Dunster said nothing. His face was set, his eyes were looking somewhere beyond the confines of the saloon in which he was seated. So they travelled for over an hour. The young man seemed to be dozing in earnest when, with a succession of jerks, the train rapidly slackened speed. Mr. Dunster let down the window. The interior of the carriage was at once thrown into confusion. A couple of newspapers were caught up and whirled around, a torrent of rain beat in. Mr. Dunster rapidly closed the window and rang the bell. The guard came in after a moment or two. His clothes were shiny from the wet; raindrops hung from his beard.

“What is the matter?” Mr. Dunster demanded. “Why are we waiting here?”

“There’s a block on the line somewhere,” the man replied. “Can’t tell where exactly. The signals are against us; that’s all we know at present.”

They crawled on again in about ten minutes, stopped, and resumed their progress at an even slower rate. Mr. Dunster once more summoned the guard.

“Why are we travelling like this?” he asked impatiently. “We shall never catch the boat.”

“We shall catch the boat all right if it runs, sir,” the man assured him. “The mail is only a mile or two ahead of us; that’s one reason why we have to go so slowly. Then the water is right over the line where we are now, and we can’t get any news at all from the other side of Ipswich. If it goes on like this, some of the bridges will be down; that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Mr. Dunster frowned. For the first time he showed some signs of uneasiness.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, half to himself, “a motor-car would have been better.”

“Not on your life,” his young companion intervened. “All the roads to the coast here cross no end of small bridges–much weaker affairs than the railway bridges. I bet there are some of those down already. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to see where you were going, on a night like this.”

“There appears to be a chance,” Mr. Dunster remarked drily, “that you will have to scratch for your competition to-morrow.”

“Also,” the young man observed, “that you will have taken this special train for nothing. I can’t fancy the Harwich boat going out a night like this.”

Mr. Dunster relapsed into stony but anxious silence. The train continued its erratic progress, sometimes stopping altogether for a time, with whistle blowing repeatedly; sometimes creeping along the metals as though feeling its way to safety. At last, after a somewhat prolonged wait, the guard, whose hoarse voice they had heard on the platform of the small station in which they were standing, entered the carriage. With him came a gust of wind, once more sending the papers flying around the compartment. The rain dripped from his clothes on to the carpet. He had lost his hat, his hair was tossed with the wind, his face was bleeding from a slight wound on the temple.

“The boat train’s just ahead of us, sir,” he announced. “She can’t get on any better than we can. We’ve just heard that there’s a bridge down on the line between Ipswich and Harwich.”

“What are we going to do, then?” Mr. Dunster demanded.

“That’s just what I’ve come to ask you, sir,” the guard replied. “The mail’s going slowly on as far as Ipswich. I fancy they’ll lie by there until the morning. The best thing that I can see is, if you’re agreeable, to take you back to London. We can very likely do that all right, if we start at once.”

Mr. Dunster, ignoring the man’s suggestion, drew from one of the voluminous pockets of his ulster a small map. He spread it open upon the table before him and studied it attentively.

“If I cannot get to Harwich,” he asked, “is there any possibility of keeping straight on and reaching Yarmouth?”

The guard hesitated.

“We haven’t heard anything about the line from Ipswich to Norwich, sir,” he replied, “but we can’t very well change our course without definite instructions.”

“Your definite instructions,” Mr. Dunster reminded him drily, “were to take me to Harwich. You have been forced to depart from them. I see no harm in your adopting any suggestions I may have to make concerning our altered destination. I will pay the extra mileage, naturally.”

“How far did you wish to go, sir?” the guard enquired.

“To Yarmouth,” Mr. Dunster replied firmly. “If there are bridges down, and communication with Harwich is blocked, Yarmouth would suit me better than anywhere.”

The guard shook his head.

“I couldn’t go on that way, sir, without instructions.”

“Is there a telegraph office at this station?” Mr. Dunster inquired.

“We can speak anywhere on the line,” the guard replied.

“Then wire to the station-master at Liverpool Street,” Mr. Dunster instructed. “You can get a reply from him in the course of a few minutes. Explain the situation and tell him what my wishes are.”

The guard hesitated.

“It’s a goodish way from here to Norwich,” he observed, “and for all we know–”

“When we left Liverpool Street Station,” Mr. Dunster interrupted, “I promised five pounds each to you, the engine-driver, and his mate. That five pounds shall be made twenty-five if you succeed in getting me to the coast. Do your best for me.”

The guard raised his hat and departed without another word.

“It will probably suit you better,” Mr. Dunster continued, turning to his companion, “to leave me at Ipswich and join the mail.”

The latter shook his head.

“I don’t see that there’s any chance, anyway, of my getting over in time now,” he remarked. “If you’ll take me on with you as far as Norwich, I can go quietly home from there!”

“You live in this part of the world, then?” Mr. Dunster asked.

The young man assented. Again there was a certain amount of hesitation in his manner.

“I live some distance the other side of Norwich,” he said. “I don’t want to sponge on you too much,” he went on, “but if you’re really going to stick it out and try and get there, I’d like to go on, too. I am afraid I can’t offer to share the expense, but I’d work my passage if there was anything to be done.”

Mr. Dunster drummed for a moment upon the table with his fingers. All the time the young man had been speaking, his eyes had been studying his face. He turned now once more to his map.

“It was my idea,” he said, “to hire a steam trawler from Yarmouth. If I do so, you can, if you wish, accompany me so far as the port at which we may land in Holland. On the other hand, to be perfectly frank with you, I should prefer to go alone. There will be, no doubt, a certain amount of risk in crossing to-night. My own business is of importance. A golf tournament, however, is scarcely worth risking your life for, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” the young man replied grimly. “I fancy I should rather like it. Let’s see whether we can get on to Norwich, anyhow, shall we? We may find that there are bridges down on that line.”

They relapsed once more into silence. Presently the guard reappeared.

“Instructions to take you on to Yarmouth, if possible, sir,” he announced, “and to collect the mileage at our destination.”

“That will be quite satisfactory,” Mr. Dunster agreed. “Let us be off, then, as soon as possible.” Presently they crawled on. They passed the boat train in Ipswich Station, where they stayed for a few moments. Mr. Dunster bought wine and sandwiches, and his companion followed his example. Then they continued their journey. An hour or more passed; the storm showed no signs of abatement. Their speed now rarely exceeded ten or fifteen miles an hour. Mr. Dunster smoked all the time, occasionally rubbing the window-pane and trying to look out. Gerald Fentolin slept fitfully.

“Have you any idea where we are?” Mr. Dunster asked once.

The boy cautiously let down the window a little way. With the noise of the storm came another sound, to which he listened for a moment with puzzled face: a dull, rumbling sound like the falling of water. He closed the window, breathless.

“I don’t think we are far from Norwich. We passed Forncett, anyhow, some time ago.”

“Still raining?”

“In torrents! I can’t see a yard ahead of me. I bet we get some floods after this. I expect they are out now, if one could only see.”

They crept on. Suddenly, above the storm, they heard what sounded at first like the booming of a gun, and then a shrill whistle from some distance ahead. They felt the jerk as their brakes were hastily applied, the swaying of the little train, and then the crunching of earth beneath them, the roar of escaping steam as their engine ploughed its way on into the road bed.

“Off the rails!” the boy cried, springing to his feet. “Hold on tightly, sir. I’d keep away from the window.”

The carriage swayed and rocked. Suddenly a telegraph post seemed to come crashing through the window and the polished mahogany panels. The young man escaped it by leaping to one side. It caught Mr. Dunster, who had just risen to his feet, upon the forehead. There was a crash all around of splitting glass, a further shock. They were both thrown off their feet. The light was suddenly extinguished. With the crashing of glass, the splitting of timber–a hideous, tearing sound–the wrecked saloon, dragging the engine half-way over with it, slipped down a low embankment and lay on its side, what remained of it, in a field of turnips.

CHAPTER III

As the young man staggered to his feet, he had somehow a sense of detachment, as though he were commencing a new life, or had suddenly come into a new existence. Yet his immediate surroundings were charged with ugly reminiscences. Through a great gap in the ruined side of the saloon the rain was tearing in. As he stood up, his head caught the fragments of the roof. He was able to push back the wreckage with ease and step out. For a moment he reeled, as he met the violence of the storm. Then, clutching hold of the side of the wreck, he steadied himself. A light was moving back and forth, close at hand. He cried out weakly: “Hullo!”

A man carrying a lantern, bent double as he made his way against the wind, crawled up to them. He was a porter from the station close at hand.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “Any one alive here?”

“I’m all right,” Gerald muttered, “at least, I suppose I am. What’s it all–what’s it all about? We’ve had an accident.”

The porter caught hold of a piece of the wreckage with which to steady himself.

“Your train ran right into three feet of water,” he answered. “The rails had gone–torn up. The telegraph line’s down.”

“Why didn’t you stop the train?”

“We were doing all we could,” the man retorted gloomily. “We weren’t expecting anything else through to-night. We’d a man along the line with a lantern, but he’s just been found blown over the embankment, with his head in a pool of water. Any one else in your carriage?”

“One gentleman travelling with me,” Gerald answered. “We’d better try to get him out. What about the guard and engine-driver?”

“The engine-driver and stoker are both alive,” the porter told him. “I came across them before I saw you. They’re both knocked sort of sillylike, but they aren’t much hurt. The guard’s stone dead.”

“Where are we?”

“A few hundred yards from Wymondham. Let’s have a look for the other gentleman.”

Mr. John P. Dunster was lying quite still, his right leg doubled up, and a huge block of telegraph post, which the saloon had carried with it in its fall, still pressing against his forehead. He groaned as they dragged him out and laid him down upon a cushion in the shelter of the wreckage.

“He’s alive all right,” the porter remarked. “There’s a doctor on the way. Let’s cover him up quick and wait.”

“Can’t we carry him to shelter of some sort?” Gerald proposed.

The man shook his head. Speech of any sort was difficult. Even with his lips close to the other’s ears, he had almost to shout.

“Couldn’t be done,” he replied. “It’s all one can do to walk alone when you get out in the middle of the field, away from the shelter of the embankment here. There’s bits of trees flying all down the lane. Never was such a night! Folks is fair afraid of the morning to see what’s happened. There’s a mill blown right over on its side in the next field, and the man in charge of it lying dead. This poor chap’s bad enough.”

Gerald, on all fours, had crept back into the compartment. The bottle of wine was smashed into atoms. He came out, dragging the small dressing-case which his companion had kept on the table before him. One side of it was dented in, but the lock, which was of great strength, still held.

“Perhaps there’s a flask somewhere in this dressing-case,” Gerald said. “Lend me a knife.”

Strong though it had been, the lock was already almost torn out from its foundation. They forced the spring and opened it. The porter turned his lantern on the widening space. Just as Gerald was raising the lid very slowly to save the contents from being scattered by the wind, the man turned his head to answer an approaching hail. Gerald raised the lid a little higher and suddenly closed it with a bang.

“There’s folks coming at last!” the porter exclaimed, turning around excitedly. “They’ve been a time and no mistake. The village isn’t a quarter of a mile away. Did you find a flask, sir?”

Gerald made no answer. The dressing-case once more was closed, and his hand pressed upon the lid. The porter turned the light upon his face and whistled softly.

“You’re about done yourself, sir,” he remarked. “Hold up.”

He caught the young man in his arms. There was another roar in Gerald’s ears besides the roar of the wind. He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now–a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth. The porter suddenly gave a little cry.

“If I’m not a born idiot!” he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand. “There’s whisky here. I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism. Now, then.”

He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man. The voices now were coming nearer and nearer. Gerald made a desperate effort.

“I am all right,” he declared. “Let’s look after him.”

They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still gripping the dressing-case with both hands. There were no signs of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily. Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears. The porter staggered to his feet.

“It’s all right now, sir!” he exclaimed. “They’ve brought blankets and a stretcher and brandy. Here’s a doctor, sir.”

A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, moved towards them.

“How many are there of you?” he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.

“Only we two,” Gerald replied. “Is my friend badly hurt?”

“Concussion,” the doctor announced. “We’ll take him to the village. What about you, young man? Your face is bleeding, I see.”

“Just a cut,” Gerald faltered; “nothing else.”

“Lucky chap,” the doctor remarked. “Let’s get him to shelter of some sort. Come along. There’s an inn at the corner of the lane there.”

They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case, and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherent villager.

“Such a storm as never was,” the latter volunteered. “The telegraph wires are all down for miles and miles. There won’t be no trains running along this line come many a week, and as for trees–why, it’s as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire Fellowes’s park. When the morning do come, for sure there will be things to be seen. This way, sir. Be careful of the gate.”

They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree which lay across the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon they were joined by more of the villagers, roused from their beds by rumours of terrible happenings. The little, single-storey, ivy-covered inn was all lit up and the door held firmly open. They passed through the narrow entrance and into the stone-flagged barroom, where the men laid down their stretcher. As many of the villagers as could crowd in filled the passage. Gerald sank into a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almost disconcerting. He felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He was only vaguely conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by a red-faced and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, was immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes, his brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and the shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with unnatural strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case. He sat a little apart from the others and listened. Above the confused murmur of voices he could hear the doctor’s comment and brief orders, as he rose to his feet after examining the unconscious man.

“An ordinary concussion,” he declared. “I must get round and see the engine-driver now. They have got him in a shed by the embankment. I’ll call in again later on. Let’s have one more look at you, young man.”

He glanced at the cut on Gerald’s forehead, noted the access of colour in his cheeks, and nodded.

“Born to be hanged, you were,” he pronounced. “You’ve had a marvellous escape. I’ll be in again presently. No need to worry about your friend. He looks as though he’d got a mighty constitution. Light my lantern, Brown. Two of you had better come with me to the shed. It’s no night for a man to be wandering about alone.”

He departed, and many of the villagers with him. The landlady sat down and began to weep.

“Such a night! Such a night!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “And there’s the doctor talks about putting the poor gentleman to bed! Why, the roof’s off the back part of the house, and not a bedroom in the place but mine and John’s, and the rain coming in there in torrents. Such a night! It’s the judgment of the Lord upon us! That’s what it is–the judgment of the Lord!”

“Judgment of the fiddlesticks!” her husband growled. “Can’t you light the fire, woman? What’s the good of sitting there whining?”

“Light the fire,” she repeated bitterly, “and the chimney lying out in the road! Do you want to suffocate us all, or is the beer still in your head? It’s your evil doings, Richard Budden, and others like you, that have brought this upon us. If Mr. Wembley would but come in and pray!”

Her husband scoffed. He was dressed only in his shirt and trousers, his hair rough, his braces hanging down behind.

“Come in and pray!” he repeated. “Not he! Not Mr. Wembley! He’s safe tucked up in his bed, shivering with fear, I’ll bet you. He’s not getting his feet wet to save a body or lend a hand here. Souls are his job. You let the preacher alone, mother, and tell us what we’re going to do with this gentleman.”

“The Lord only knows!” she cried, wringing her hands.

“Can I hire a motor-car from anywhere near?” Gerald asked.

“There’s motor-cars, right enough,” the innkeeper replied, “but not many as would be fools enough to take one out. You couldn’t see the road, and I doubt if one of them plaguey things would stir in this storm.”

“Such nonsense as you talk, Richard Budden!” his wife exclaimed sharply. “It’s twenty minutes past three of the clock, and there’s light coming on us fast. If so be as the young gentleman knows folks round about here, or happens to live nigh, why shouldn’t he take one of them motor-cars and get away to some decent place? It’ll be better for the poor gentleman than lying here in a house smitten by the Lord.”

Gerald rose stiffly to his feet. An idea was forming in his brain. His eyes were bright. He looked at the body of John Dunster upon the floor, and felt once more in his pocket.

“How far off is the garage?” he asked.

“It’s right across the way,” the innkeeper replied, “a speculation of Neighbour Martin’s, and a foolish one it do seem to me. He’s two cars there, and one he lets to the Government for delivering the mails.”

Gerald felt in his pocket and produced a sovereign.

“Give this,” he said, “to any man you can find who will go across there and bring me a car–the most powerful they’ve got, if there’s any difference. Tell them I’ll pay well. This–my friend will be much better at home with me than in a strange place when he comes to his senses.”

“It’s sound common sense,” the woman declared. “Be off with you, Richard.”

The man was looking at the coin covetously, but his wife pushed him away.

“It’s not a sovereign you’ll be taking from the gentleman for a little errand like that,” she insisted sharply. “He shall pay us for what he’s had when he goes, and welcome, and if so be that he’s willing to make it a sovereign, to include the milk and the brandy and the confusion we’ve been put to this night, well and good. It’s a heavy reckoning, maybe, but the night calls for it. We’ll see about that afterwards. Get along with you, I say, Richard.”

“I’ll be wet through,” the man muttered.

“And serve you right!” the woman exclaimed. “If there’s a man in this village to-night whose clothes are dry, it’s a thing for him to be ashamed of.”

The innkeeper reluctantly departed. They heard the roar of the wind as the door was opened and closed. The woman poured out another glass of milk and brought it to Gerald.

“A godless man, mine,” she said grimly. “If so happen as Mr. Wembley had come to these parts years ago, I’d have seen myself in my grave before I’d have married a publican. But it’s too late now. We’re mostly too late about the things that count in this world. So it’s your friend that’s been stricken down, young man. A well-living man, I hope?”

Gerald shivered ever so slightly. He drank the milk, however. He felt that he might need his strength.

“What train might you have been on?” the woman continued. “There’s none due on this line that we knew of. David Bass, the station-master, was here but two hours ago and said he’d finished for the night, and praised the Lord for that. The goods trains had all been stopped at Ipswich, and the first passenger train was not due till six o’clock.”

Gerald shook his head with an affectation of weariness.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t remember anything about it. We were hours late, I think.”

The woman was looking down at the unconscious man. Gerald rose slowly to his feet and stood by her side. The face of Mr. John P. Dunster, even in unconsciousness, had something in it of strength and purpose. The shape of his head, the squareness of his jaws, the straightness of his thick lips, all seemed to speak of a hard and inflexible disposition. His hair was coal black, coarse, and without the slightest sprinkling of grey. He had the neck and throat of a fighter. But for that single, livid, blue mark across his forehead, he carried with him no signs of his accident. He was a little inclined to be stout. There was a heavy gold chain stretched across his waist-coat. From where he lay, the shining handle of his revolver protruded from his hip, pocket.

“Sakes alive!” the woman muttered, as she looked down. “What does he carry a thing like that for–in a peaceful country, too!”

“It was just an idea of his,” Gerald answered. “We were going abroad in a day or two. He was always nervous. If you like, I’ll take it away.”

He stooped down and withdrew it from the unconscious man’s pocket. He started as he discovered that it was loaded in every chamber.

“I can’t bear the sight of them things,” the woman declared. “It’s the men of evil ways, who’ve no trust in the Lord, who need that sort of protection.”

They heard the door pushed open, the howl of wind down the passage, and the beating of rain upon the stone flags. Then it was softly closed again. The landlord staggered into the room, followed by a young man.

“This ‘ere is Mr. Martin’s chaffer,” he announced. “You can tell him what you want yerself.”

Gerald turned almost eagerly towards the newcomer.

“I want to go to the other side of Holt,” he said, “and get my friend–get this gentleman away from here–get him home, if possible. Can you take me?”

The chauffeur looked doubtful.

“I’m afraid of the roads, sir,” he replied. “There’s talk about many bridges down, and trees, and there’s floods out everywhere. There’s half a foot of water, even, across the village street now. I’m afraid we shouldn’t get very far.”

“Look here,” Gerald begged eagerly, “let’s make a shot at it. I’ll pay you double the hire of the car, and I’ll be responsible for any damage. I want to get out of this beastly place. Let’s get somewhere, at any rate, towards a civilised country. I’ll see you don’t lose anything. I’ll give you a five pound note for yourself if we get as far as Holt.”

“I’m on,” the young man agreed shortly. “It’s an open car, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gerald replied. “I can stick it in front with you, and we can cover–him up in the tonneau.”

“You’ll wait until the doctor comes back?” the landlord asked.

“And why should they?” his wife interposed sharply. “Them doctors are all the same. He’ll try and keep the poor gentleman here for the sake of a few extra guineas, and a miserable place for him to open his eyes upon, even if the rest of the roof holds, which for my part I’m beginning to doubt. They’d have to move him from here with the daylight, anyhow. He can’t lie in the bar parlour all day, can he?”

“It don’t seem right, somehow,” the man com plained doggedly. “The doctor didn’t say anything about having him moved.”

“You get the car,” Gerald ordered the young man. “I’ll take the whole responsibility.”

The chauffeur silently left the room. Gerald put a couple of sovereigns upon the mantelpiece.

“My friend is a man of somewhat peculiar temperament,” he said quietly. “If he finds himself at home in a comfortable room when he comes to his senses, I am quite sure that he will have a better chance of recovery. He cannot possibly be made comfortable here, and he will feel the shock of what has happened all the more if he finds himself still in the neighbourhood when he opens his eyes. If there is any change in his condition, we can easily stop somewhere on the way.”

The woman pocketed the two sovereigns.

“That’s common sense, sir,” she agreed heartily, “and I’m sure we are very much obliged to you. If we had a decent room, and a roof above it, you’d be heartily welcome, but as it is, this is no place for a sick man, and those that say different don’t know what they are talking about. That’s a real careful young man who’s going to take you along in the motor-car. He’ll get you there safe, if any one will.”

“What I say is,” her husband protested sullenly, “that we ought to wait for the doctor’s orders. I’m against seeing a poor body like that jolted across the country in an open motor-car, in his state. I’m not sure that it’s for his good.”

“And what business is it of yours, I should like to know?” the woman demanded sharply. “You get up-stairs and begin moving the furniture from where the rain’s coming sopping in. And if so be you can remember while you do it that this is a judgment that’s come upon us, why, so much the better. We are evil-doers, all of us, though them as likes the easy ways generally manage to forget it.”

The man retreated silently. The woman sat down upon a stool and waited. Gerald sat opposite to her, the battered dressing-case upon his knees. Between them was stretched the body of the unconscious man.

“Are you used to prayer, young sir?” the woman asked.

Gerald shook his head, and the woman did not pursue the subject. Only once her eyes were half closed and her words drifted across the room.

“The Lord have mercy on this man, a sinner!”