Читать книгу Shoal Water - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 5

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I have taken some knocks in my time: but this revelation of Katharine’s, so bluntly and casually made, actually set my ears singing—and that is the downright truth. I sat there, staring upon her, ‘as a sheep before her shearers is dumb,’ while she and her background seemed to retreat before me and grow very small and, though I was out in the open, I seemed to need air to breathe.

I knew that the sun was shining, the sky was blue; but these things no longer counted: her statement had taken heaven and left the earth. And my brain could not accept this—this hideous fact. It was shying, jibbing, backing away from the truth. And with it my senses were reeling....

Then the sweat broke out on my forehead, my vision cleared, and something that seemed like a wave sank back into place in my head.

As I wiped my face, I began to review the facts. Grisly or no, they simply had to be faced.

This glorious, well-bred creature belonged to the criminal class: my most attractive companion, of whom I had been so proud, was nothing more or less than a common or garden thief: Katharine was Formosa: the girl whose hand I had kissed, who had left behind her that tender, pitiful note....

‘You’ve made it so very hard for me to do the right thing.’

It was the thought of that sentence that brought me up all standing, dispersed the facts I was facing and showed me, instead, two definite, flaming truths.

The first was this—though she gave herself that name, she was not by nature a crook. And the second—that I was in love with one of the criminal class.

“Takes getting hold of, doesn’t it?”

I looked up to meet her gray eyes.

“It would,” said I, “if it happened to be the truth.”

“It’s true enough—and you know it,” said Katharine.

“Let me put it like this,” said I, with my eyes upon hers. “For some reason or other, you may have done as crooks do. But that doesn’t make you a crook. Nothing on earth, my dear, could ever do that.”

She was looking down and away, with a hand to her head.

“That’s—very handsome,” she said. “But you can’t get round it like that.”

“I’m not getting round it,” said I. “I don’t care who you’ve run with or what you’ve done. Everyone there was a crook—I can see it now. But you are not of that kidney, and never were. That means that you had good reason for mucking in with that crowd. What that reason was, I neither know nor care. You had good reason—and that is enough for me.”

“In fact ... you believe in ... Formosa?”

Her head was still turned away, and she spoke very low.

“With all my heart,” I said gently. “I may not know my world, but I’ve seen the light in your eyes.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“I’ve never stolen,” said Katharine. “I only carry the stuff. That’s just as bad, of course: it’s no good stealing a thing if you can’t get it safely away: but, in fact, I have never stolen: and, nine times out of ten, I never set eyes on a jewel. I’m not excusing myself. By rights, I should be in jail. But ... since you believe in Formosa, I’d like you to hear her side—for what it is worth. No one has ever heard it, and no one but you ever will. And no one but you would believe it—it’s just a shade too fantastic for people who know their world.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I said. “But please don’t think that I’ve got to. I know your hands are clean, and I don’t have to have any proof.”

Katharine looked at me.

“You’re very sweet, Esau,” she said. “Sometimes you make things easy, and sometimes you make them hard: but at least you’ve shown me I’m not so tough as I thought.” She put out her cigarette and took up her old position, clasping her knees. “And now you shall have my story: I’ll make it as short as I can.

“My father’s an artist—a painter: at least, he was. If he had cared to paint portraits, I think he’d have made a big name: but he had a private income, and so he wouldn’t bother, but painted whatever he pleased. He had a rare eye for beauty and all things fair. He never could bear ostentation of any kind, but simple, natural things were the breath of his life. Anything sordid or vulgar caused him genuine distress: and I want you to understand that this wasn’t a pose. He was—and is—unusually sensitive.

“Well, he served right through the War, and, as you may well imagine, it left its mark on his soul. What left a still deeper mark was my mother’s death. She died in 1918, when I was born. Bruised and broken-hearted, for my sake he held up his head: but the ways of the post-war world were more than he could endure, and so he began to wander, in search of some corner in Europe which had been spared. He found it in 1930, when I was twelve: and he came straight back to England, to fetch me and take me out, so that I could share with him his great discovery.

“Cardinal is a little hamlet, right in the heart of France. It’s really very lovely, set on the banks of a river and sunk in magnificent woods. Its people are very simple and quite unspoiled, and they live and work as they used to in bygone days. But Cardinal’s pride is its castle, a little pocket château, hung high above the village by someone who knew how to build in the fifteenth century. It was for sale, and my father bought it at once. And then he set to work to restore it....

“He and the village masons did all the work. It took five years to do, and I saw it done. And when it was finished, it was the most perfect thing. It’s like a fairy castle, built on very small scale. It hangs in the woods, directly above the village, with great trees all about it and two magnificent chestnuts growing in its courtyard. Its terrace and turrets and stairways, its coats-of-arms and battlements—I simply cannot tell you how perfectly lovely they are. And it faces south and it sleeps in the sun all day: and below it the water-wheels are running and the smoke from a score of chimneys lies like a veil in the treetops, because the air is so still.

“Well, as I’ve told you, it took five years to do. And when Cardinal was once again perfect in every way, my father went blind. One day he could see, and the next he had lost his sight. And that, irreparably.

“He took it wonderfully. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d say, ‘but it might be so very much worse. I’m here at Cardinal, and I know its beauty by heart. I know the view from the ramparts: I know the hamlet below and the meadows beyond. I can feel the sun hot upon the terrace and hear the song of the water-wheels running below. And I shall be happy here, with the speech of the birds about me and the lisp of the wind in the trees.’ The servants were very faithful—we’ve only four: and, as I was careful to see that everything went the same, he really survived very well this great catastrophe. He knew the castle so well that soon he could move about as he did before: his clothes were laid out, as always: the meals were served as usual, with Conrad—that’s the butler—standing behind his chair: and after six weeks, Esau, if you had dined there with us, I honestly do not believe that you would have known he was blind.

“But one thing he could not do, and that was business. His correspondence was small; but he couldn’t sign cheques or write letters, and things like that. Not that it mattered, because I took all that on. I was seventeen then, and though I knew nothing before, I very soon picked things up.

“There wasn’t much to pick up. What savings he had had gone on Cardinal: but he couldn’t touch his income, for that was settled on me. It was fifteen hundred a year—and more than enough, for Cardinal only costs a thousand a year to run. So, as I say, I soon got the hang of things.... And then, on my eighteenth birthday, I opened a note from his Bank. It was very politely worded, but very firm. ‘No more cheques could be honoured, until my father’s account was in credit again.’ This shook me up, for I knew that we weren’t overdrawn. And there I was wrong. We were: for no income had been paid in for nearly six months.

“To cut a long story short, the money was gone. A trust company had crashed, and we had nothing at all—except an overdraft of two hundred and fifty pounds.

“I never told my father—he doesn’t know to this day: but I had a pretty bad time for the next few days. The thought of his leaving Cardinal was something I could not face: and yet I had to face something far worse than that—a blind man, lodged in some alley where rooms were cheap, while his daughter tried to earn money to buy them bread. Deprived of all he set store by—had always had ... peace, and beauty and comfort ... servants and home: unable, because of his affliction, to meet the blow: and bound, because of his nature, to feel it far more than most; my father must surely die—or go out of his mind.

“Well, I managed to cover up somehow for twenty-four hours: and then I left for London, to sell my jewels. They had been my mother’s, of course, and I worked out that they’d make twelve hundred pounds. That would pay off the overdraft and carry Cardinal on for the better part of a year. And before that time was up, I guessed I could marry money and get the man to settle the income I had to have. That was the general idea. The special idea was to get as much for my jewels as ever I could. I didn’t know where to take them: and I was mortally afraid of being done down.

“And then a strange thing happened.

“We had a fearful crossing—the Channel was at its worst. And one poor woman on board was terribly ill. To make matters worse, she had a little girl with her, and though the scrap wasn’t ill, she was frightened to death. I happen to be a good sailor and so I took charge of the child. It wasn’t much to do: but when we were safe ashore and her mother was able to speak, you might have been forgiven for thinking I’d saved her life. She couldn’t thank me enough, and all she wanted to do was to prove her gratitude. And then, on the way to London, she used these words.

“ ‘I know my place, and it’s no good asking you out. But I’ll tell you what, my dear—if ever you want a fine brooch, or a bracelet or diamond ring, never you go to Bond Street. You write to me. My husband’s in Hatton Garden: and when he knows what you’ve done, he’ll get you whatever you want and let you have it at cost.’

“Well, that was good enough. There and then I told her that I had come to London on purpose to sell my jewels and that, if she meant what she said, here was her chance to help me to do a good deal. To say she jumped at it means nothing at all. Her husband was at Victoria, and before I left the platform, I’d arranged to be at his office at noon the following day.

“I went—to get the shock of my life. He examined the jewels with the greatest possible care: then he said he would try to get me six hundred and twenty-two pounds.

“He proved his case all right. He showed me other gems and then turned them up in his books and showed me the prices he’d paid. But that didn’t temper the wind: it only satisfied me that I was up against it far more than I’d dreamed. And what with all I’d been through, this unexpected punch put me down and out. I fainted properly. And when I came to, I was lying flat out on a sofa and he and another man were bathing my temples and wrists.

“Who the other man was I had no idea: but I took him to be some magnate, for he was issuing orders and taking charge, and my friend—Mr. Cohen—was fairly twittering. Then he sent Cohen off for brandy, and when he was gone, he asked what my trouble might be.

“I told him some of the truth—because I wasn’t myself: but I had had no one to talk to, and he was a business man. I didn’t like his looks: but any port in a storm. He might be able to help me—you never knew.

“Well, he listened carefully. Then he asked me where I was staying and how long I should be there: and then Cohen came back with the brandy, and soon after that I cleared out. Two days went by, and then I received a note. It was from the magnate all right, and he said if I’d come and see him, he had a suggestion to make. Hatton Garden again, but a different house. I went, and he made his suggestion. Two thousand a year and expenses, if I would do as he wished. ‘Smuggling,’ he called it: for nearly three months I really believed it was. And then, one day, I found that it wasn’t ‘smuggling.’ ...

“My impulse was to go to the police, and I wish to God that I had: but, you see, my hands were not clean, and I dreaded the awful exposure which must result if I did. So I went to—my employer, instead. I told him what he was fit for and pitched the stuff down at his feet. And then I walked out....

“I didn’t get very far. That night I was in a cabin, on board a ship in the stream. The door was locked and I couldn’t open the port-hole, and I didn’t like the look of the nigger who came when I rang the bell. ‘He’ came to see me an hour before the ship sailed. He said I could take my choice—carry on as before, or sail for Buenos Ayres ... to take on a different job.

“And so I went back.

“I tried again, later on. By that time I was afraid to go to the police. I was involved too deeply—he’d seen to that. And so I just disappeared. And after lying low for ten days, I ventured to Cardinal.

“A letter was waiting for me....

“Till then, I had never dreamed that he knew my true name and address; for I’d taken my mother’s name and I’d always been so careful to cover my tracks. But he knows—everything.

“The letter was very short. It simply said that, if I did not return, he was coming to Cardinal. ‘I must make your father’s acquaintance. In a sense he is my protégé. I have kept Cardinal going for more than a year. And when he knows this ...’

“Well, I couldn’t face torture like that. And so, once more, I went back.”

She put her hands to her temples and pushed back her shining hair.

“And that was how I learned what I might have perceived before—that, having begun, I had simply got to go on. When I reported for duty, he rammed that home. ‘Don’t do it again,’ he said, ‘lest a worse thing befall. You’re worth the trouble you’ve given—but not any more.’ I realized then that I’d never be permitted to clear, because I knew too much. You see, I know a great deal—that shouldn’t be known. I know the thieves and receivers: I know the big men and small: I know their habits and customs and where they are to be found: I know how the police are outwitted and see the mistakes they make: when a crime’s done, I can tell you who planned it as well as who carried it out—because I am in on these things.... And once you are in on those things, you’ve got to stay put. You can’t retire—they won’t let you: they’ve simply got to have you under their eye. I’m not at all sure that I blame them: but any way there you are. You’ve got to go on or go under—there’s no other way.”

“What d’you mean—‘go under’?” I said.

Katharine shrugged her shoulders and picked up a cigarette.

Then—

“Lose your life,” she said slowly. “I can’t put it plainer than that. Twice my life has been spared, because—well, because it was worth it. You see, I’m valuable. Because of my birth and my breeding, I am ‘above suspicion,’ and I can go anywhere. For that reason, too, he’s always played straight with me. But now he’s through. I know it. He’s got a good many faults: but he never speaks twice.”

There was another silence—a much longer one than before. Her cigarette was half smoked before I opened my mouth.

“I’m afraid I’ve torn it,” I said.

“Fate has torn it,” said Katharine. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“The point is—it’s torn,” said I.

Katharine gave a short nod.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s torn. When you walked up to my table, the veil of the temple was rent.” She threw down her cigarette and covered her eyes. “When I saw you come in, I was gravelled—I couldn’t think what to do. I knew you were bound to see me: and once you’d seen me, I knew you were bound to come up. And that was, of course, what happened....

“I hardly know what I said, but I tried to force you—to blast you out of that room. If you’d turned on your heel and gone, I think they’d have let you go. But when you stood your ground—well, that was about as good as walking on to the drop. You would have been, er, rendered unconscious and then dropped into the Seine.

“Well, something had to be done. The door was hopeless, of course: but I knew the back way out. Most of us know it—in case: but it’s not allowed to be used. I mean, that’s understood.... The question was how to make it, and take you, too. And then I thought of the switchboard. I knew that was fixed in a cupboard, inside the ladies’ room. Well, that was all right; but I had to be able to see, whilst everyone else was blind. So I shut my eyes for two minutes: then I put up my hand and pulled the main switch down: then I shut and locked the cupboard and took the key: and then I got hold of you, and you know the rest.”

“You saved my life,” I said.

“Perhaps. But what else could I do? If you had been placed as I was, you couldn’t have let me go down.”

“And, as a result, you’re ‘wanted.’ ”

Katharine gave her short nod.

“We’re both of us ‘wanted’,” she said. “The Shepherd wants us—that’s the man with the eyes. And—it’s no good not facing facts—he usually gets what he wants.”

“Does he, indeed?” said I—and felt as ripe for murder as ever I did in my life. “Was he the swine who ‘engaged’ you three years ago? When you were right up against it and ready to sell your soul?”

“Yes, it was he.”

I sucked in my breath.

“It’s as well for us both,” said I, “that I didn’t know that last night. Never mind. Some other time. If he tries as hard as you say, we shall probably meet.”

Katharine caught my arm.

“My dear, you’re out of your mind. You’ve about as much chance with The Shepherd as a baby would have with a tiger who’d lost his kill.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m not going after him. I don’t believe in throwing one’s life away. But if somebody’s after you—well, the time may come when it suits you to let him come up.”

“I’m afraid I can’t see that time coming. I know my—my colleagues too well.”

I rose to my feet and stretched.

“And I actually thought,” I said smiling, “that I had torn everything up.”

Katharine stared up at me.

“What has happened to change your mind?”

“Reflection,” I said. “Nothing else. Upon reflection, I see that I’ve done you a very good turn.”

Katharine sighed.

“If you can see that,” she said, “you must have damned good sight.”

“No,” said I, “it sticks out. You may have saved my life; but I’ve lost you your job.”

“I see. The Salvation Army. I’m much obliged.”

“No,” said I. “Just Esau—speaking as he has been taught. I think your mess of pottage has cost you enough.”

She lowered her eyes.

“That’s just,” she said. “I’ve sold my birthright, I know. But don’t rub it in.”

I put out my hands for hers, and after a moment or two she gave me them both.

“You only pledged it,” I said. “And Fate and I, between us, have got it out.”

“That’s a shade too Quixotic, Esau—even for you. I told you about my father, because I wished you to know how I came to do what I’ve done. But if ever we get out of this—and I can’t quite see how we shall—well, a merchant in Crutched Friars can’t be friends with a well-known crook.”

“That’s tripe,” said I, “and you know it.”

“It isn’t tripe. In certain—circles, Formosa is very well-known. And if anyone liked to squeak, a warrant would issue to-morrow for my arrest.”

“In which case,” said I, “the merchant would bail you out.”

“How nice for Solon and Solon! And didn’t you say that you were a member of White’s?”

I drew her up to her feet, and looked into her eyes.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” I said, “but you shouldn’t have sent me that note.”

“Don’t be a fool. I was trying to temper the wind.”

“That’s all I’m doing,” said I. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Twelve lazy hours had gone by.

We had bathed and slept, and Katharine was wearing my clothes, which, because they were far too big, made her look like a beautiful child. For the time, she went barefoot, because she was sick of her shoes and there, of course, my wardrobe had broken down.

The change and the rest had refreshed her: and, as she sat by my side on the sunlit sward, propping herself on one arm and considering one of my maps, I found it hard to believe that this was indeed Formosa, who had flouted the police of Europe for three long years.

After a while she looked up.

“Listen, Esau,” she said. “We’ve had a nice, quiet day, and, if things were what they look like, we’d pack up our traps and go to some good hotel. But things aren’t what they look like, and, though you mayn’t believe it, we’re in a hell of a jam. For the moment we’re off the map. But we’ve got to stay off the map for some considerable time. For at least a month they’ll ransack France for us both: and it’s no good our clearing out, for they’ll watch the ports. The Shepherd has wires he can pull all over the place. And The Wet Flag’s like an Exchange. Last night the news went out that Formosa had cut and run and, what is much more to the point, that The Shepherd would like her back. And, as The Shepherd’s worth pleasing, that means that petty crooks all over the place will keep an eye cocked for Formosa and, if they should see her go by, will try and follow her up.”

I think that I must have shown the surprise which I felt, for I heard her expire and a hand went up to her head.

“Esau dear, get this. However absurd it seems, you must accept as gospel whatever I say. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ That’s what Shakespeare said—and here’s my corollary. ‘But if you could see the things which are under the earth, you would not believe your eyes.’ For one thing only—and I could talk for hours—law-abiding people have no conception at all of the way in which news goes round in the underworld. Rumour, perhaps: but the rumour is always right. Nothing is ever written, so far as I know; but no system of information is half as quick or as good. The things they know about people would startle you out of your life. After all, it’s a secret service: and the better the service is, the more money it makes.

“And now let’s get back to the point—which is that our lives depend on our not being found. Well, we obviously can’t stay here. We’ve got to have food and shelter, and I’ve got to have some clothes. In a word, we’ve got to start fair: and that is why to-night we must make for Cardinal.”

I opened my eyes.

“But won’t that be asking for trouble? I mean——”

“I think he’ll try elsewhere first. Only last night he told me a way to pass into Spain. And I think he’s now going all out to stop that gap. I may be wrong, but I think he will make up his mind that Cardinal is the one place which I shall avoid. If I’m right, that will give us a breather. No more than that, of course; for when he’s drawn blank elsewhere, he’s certain to go to my home. But before then we shall be gone. I can warn the servants against him, and Cardinal’s half a fort: but I don’t think he’ll trouble my father—he’s past blackmail.

“It may have been a mistake to lie up to-day: but ask too much of the flesh, and the spirit will let you down. And I’d very much rather travel by night than day. Besides, to tell you the truth, when we got here this morning, I didn’t know where to turn. It’s only during the day that I’ve managed to work things out.

“Well, from here to Cardinal is three hundred and fifty miles. On the roads we are going to take, you’ll have to drive very well to average thirty-five: and that works out at ten hours—which means, if we leave at dusk, that we ought to be in by six. I shan’t like the last two hours, but it can’t be helped. And, as I said just now, I think he’ll rule Cardinal out for two or three days.”

“I’m in your hands,” said I. “But we’ll have to take in petrol—twice, I’m afraid.”

She bit her lip.

“I’m sorry for that. To-night doesn’t matter a damn. But to-morrow morning does. It means knocking somebody up: and when you don’t want to be noticed that’s not the way to behave. Still, that’s a drop in the bucket—of this appalling stew.” She put her hands to her eyes. “I’m afraid to look at the future, because, if I did, I believe I should throw in my hand. Havoc’s ahead all right, and I can’t see any way through. But the obvious thing to do is to try and hang on to our lives—if only because, when we’re dead, we can’t do anything more.”

With that, she turned again to the map and left me staring before me, regarding the efforts of a beetle to find a way off the blade of grass he had climbed, without turning back.

Sitting there, in that peaceful place, it was very hard to believe that we were in peril, let alone danger of death: and when I remembered the office in Crutched Friars, my pleasant, window-boxed chambers in Savile Row, the cheerful London traffic and all that went to make up the safe, untroubled existence which I had so lately led, I was almost prepared to wake up and find myself sitting at Rouen, still waiting for George’s train.

I think I may be forgiven.

I had read of crime in the papers: I had never been into a police-court, had never seen an arrest: I had always supposed that, pickpockets apart, unless you had great possessions, no rogue on earth could be bothered to look at you twice: and I had firmly believed that no crook ever did murder, unless he had his back to the wall. I had heard of ‘the underworld’; and it meant no more to me than the urban district council of Zanzibar.... And now I was ‘wanted’ by one of its leading men—the dent on the Lowland’s boot left no doubt about that: because his writ ran in Europe, I must not drive by daylight over the roads of France: because I had encountered Formosa, I was to be put to death.

A gust of anger swept me. Who was this filthy sewer-rat to raise his hand against me? Who was this beast to pursue me, because I had dared to raise my eyes to his prey. His prey! A lady of high degree ... of whom he had taken advantage, when she was down and out. He called it ‘smuggling.’ And when she had tried to withdraw, he had shipped her beautiful body for Buenos Ayres.... I felt the sweat break upon my forehead, as I pictured the stuffy cabin and The Shepherd dictating his terms. And then—blackmail. ... A threat to break her father, to smash the life for which she had sold her soul. ‘And so I went back.’ Because he said so, she must ‘go on or go under.’ No joie de vivre for her: no love, no marriage, no hope: nothing but running the gauntlet, risking her name and her freedom, to carry his stolen goods.... The thing was intolerable. If Scotland Yard—— And then I saw that I could not call on the police ... for Katharine was Formosa ... and anyone in touch with Formosa would be just a shade too welcome at Scotland Yard.

“Have you got things straighter?” said Katharine.

I looked up to see her watching me, finger to lip.

“Yes,” I said boldly, “I have: but I’m still a bit out of my depth, so I look to you. It’s very kind of you to ask me to Cardinal: I’ll love to meet your father and stay with you at your home. How we get there is, of course, a matter for you: but it seems to me a scandalous thing that in this year of grace, you and I should go in fear of our lives, because your late employer disapproves of our acquaintance. That sort of thing makes me feel that The Shepherd’s death and burial are overdue: I mean, the man seems to me to have outlived his usefulness.”

“There are many quarters,” said Katharine, “in which that sentiment would be greeted with prolonged applause—provided, of course, that The Shepherd was out of earshot. But when, encouraged by this, you called for recruits, you’d find that all your supporters had something much better to do.”

“That I can well believe. Of such is the kingdom of Hell. And as a result, we have got to bow to the storm. We must, of course—for the moment. And when we’re at Cardinal, we’ll talk about him again.”

“Do you realize now why he wants to find you so much?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Because, I suppose,” I said, “I wandered behind the scenes.”

“Let me give you his point of view, Esau. You followed me to The Wet Flag: you saw with half an eye that I was keeping—well, doubtful company: you determined to stand your ground and to get to the bottom of this: he, therefore, tried and failed to—shall we say, shut your mouth: result—you are at large and so at liberty, if ever you see him again, to point him out to the police and demand his arrest: add to all this that Formosa has thrown in her lot with you, and you must be able to see that, from his point of view, his mental and physical health depend upon your being found and silenced as soon as possible.”

“Well, it’s nice to think he’s worried,” said I.

“You may,” said Katharine, “be perfectly sure of that. You see, he’s a pretty big man. He’s a beautiful flat in Town, and I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you the name of his Club.”

I had driven for nearly eight hours, and we had covered two hundred and thirty odd miles. The roads had been tricky, and some of them none too good: but it was the level-crossings that spoiled our time. How many we met I forget, but seven of these had been shut. Had it been day, this would have been bad enough; but in nearly every case the keeper was fast asleep and had to be roused. Of course if one goes across country at dead of night, one must, I suppose, expect to be badly served: but the waste of time was enough to break anyone’s heart. I would have been thankful myself to open and close the gates, but, though I tried more than once, they were always locked.

And now the dawn was coming—the east was pale: and we had still to cover one hundred and seventeen miles.

The strain had told on us both, for we could not lose sight of the fact that we might be driving straight into the enemy’s arms; and in any event we were heading for dangerous country, where neither could tell what a bend in the road might conceal. Then again the delays at the crossings had sickened our hearts, had made us feel that the stars were fighting against us, holding us up to serve the enemy’s turn.

It was just a quarter to five when I put out my lights. But I did not put out the hooded light on the dash. It was no good not facing facts. The petrol-gauge was a telltale I had to watch. And when I remembered the petrol which had been pumped out of my tank on a certain summer evening, a lifetime ago, I could not help feeling that Fortune must have her tongue in her cheek.

So for another ten miles, while the country about us unveiled and distance took shape and a crag on the left stood up like a mourning hatchment against the glow of the dawn.

At last I could bear it no longer, and cleared my throat.

“My dear,” I said, “I’m sorry: but very soon we’ve got to take petrol in.”

I heard her catch her breath and saw her eyes leap to the dash.

Then—

“How much does that say?”

“Just over a gallon,” said I. “Say twenty miles.”

She bit her lip.

“That means the next pump,” she said. “And a hundred to one the fellow will be in bed. He’ll never forget the people who had him up and out at a quarter past five.”

“He needn’t see both,” said I. “You can walk on out of sight before I knock at the door.”

“That’s too easy,” said Katharine. “I think perhaps we’d better make for a town.” She picked up a map. “I think we’re close to Volet. There may be an all-night garage: and any way there’ll be any number of pumps. It’s the lonely petrol-station that lets the fugitive down.”

Volet was twelve miles off, and eighteen minutes later we entered its cobbled streets.

For two or three minutes we picked our way through the town, moving very slowly and peering to right and to left down ways which we passed: then our street curled into a place in which stood a decent hotel. By the side of this house stood its garage: and the doors of the garage were open, though those of the house were shut. What was still more to the point, in the jaws of the garage entrance some car was being fuelled—from a pump which was inside the garage and out of our sight.

“The luck that changed,” said Katharine. “Who but a guest would use a hotel garage to fill his tank?”

The back of the car was towards us, and as I brought the Lowland to rest on the opposite side of the way, a man in clogs appeared, to play with the pipe for a moment and then lift it clear of the tank and screw the cap back into place. Then he re-entered the garage, to hang up the pipe. A moment or two elapsed, during which, no doubt, some payment was being made: then he appeared again, to watch the car into the road. As its driver moved slowly backwards, he waved him on with his hand.

I let the other get clear. Then I swung over the road, over the pavement and into the garage itself.

As I stopped where the other had stood, the man in clogs came shambling up to the door: but when I asked for ‘petrol,’ he only stared, for petrole is not petrol, but paraffin. Of such is the curse of Babel. ... And Katharine had to lean forward and put me right.

For obvious reasons, I did not get out of the car: but I watched the petrol-gauge and I took my note-case out.

After a frantic calculation—

“How much shall I give him?” I whispered.

Katharine made no answer, and when I looked at her, I saw there was something wrong.

She was white as a sheet, she did not seem to be breathing, her eyes were shut.

“Good God,” I said, “what’s wrong?”

She did not speak, but I saw her open her eyes and look to the left.

I followed her gaze.

A glare of lamps was lighting the concrete sink, upon which a car could be washed. And a car was standing there, dripping—waiting on our convenience, before it was dried. And the car was ‘a racing Merk,’ which was painted an elephant gray.