Читать книгу Safe Custody - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 3

Table of Contents

When my great-uncle, Nicolas Ferrers, died in the arms of a pedlar by the side of the Great North Road, he left a world that knew but little about him and cared still less.

My cousin, Hubert Constable, and I were his only relatives, but, though we were able to swear to the dead man’s face, we had not seen him alive for more than six years.

We knew that he dwelled abroad and we knew his address—Hohenems Castle, Carinthia, Austria: we knew he had never married and that his word was law: we had been taught to believe that he could be pleased or displeased by what we did: but, though our parents were dead, he made so little of our kinship that had we been in trouble, it would not have entered our heads to let him know. Indeed, though he had been our guardian, he had become for us a kind of lesser deity, unseen, mysterious, venerable, that never uttered a precept but by his secretary’s hand.

Then, out of the blue of a pleasant April morning, we each received a letter bidding us meet him in Scotland in three days’ time. We were actually discussing this summons upon the telephone, when a telegram came to tell me that he had been fatally hurt and was lying at a little village on the edge of a Yorkshire dale.

The message was sent to me because, I suppose, I bear my great-uncle’s name, but had whoever sent it known us by sight, he would have addressed it to Hubert, not so much because he was the elder as because he is plainly the leader of whatever company he keeps.

Feeling something dazed, I told my cousin the news, and within the hour we had left by train for the village the police had named.

And there we were shown the dead man and were told the truth.

This was ordinary enough.

A tire had burst, and the car in which he was travelling had been overturned. The driver had been killed outright: our great-uncle had died on the spot: and his secretary, grievously hurt, had been carried to hospital.

At once we drove to the town at which the survivor lay, but though I think the man knew us, he gave no sign. His brother had been sent for, and once or twice he inquired if he had not come, but though, as I afterwards learned, he fought for his life, he died the next morning before his brother arrived.

That day, to our relief, our great-uncle’s lawyer appeared, and we were more than thankful to let him take over the duties which we had begun to discharge. I then returned to London, to fetch us changes of linen and suitable clothes, while Hubert stayed in Yorkshire to give what assistance he could.

The inquest was held the next day, and the day after that Nicholas Ferrers was laid in a fair churchyard, but half an hour’s walk from the spot where he lost his life. The driver, who was not in his service, was taken, I think, to the parish from which he hailed: but the secretary, Harris, was buried by the side of his master and at our charge. After the inquest his brother had disappeared, so that we alone were the mourners that stood by his grave.

My great-uncle’s Will was short.

By this he divided his fortune between my cousin and me, directing that we should pay Harris six hundred pounds a year for so long as he lived. Hohenems was left to us jointly, with all that it held.

And that is the end of my prologue. Though its burden was startling enough to Hubert and me, to the lawyer it was very plainly of slight account: and that, perhaps, was natural, for plenty meet their death on the open road, and when a man dies another inherits his goods. Yet I will wager that had he foreseen the havoc which that burst tire would unloose, for which the stage was now set, that man of law and order would have gone sleepless of nights, while had he dreamed of the violence which we were to do, the hair would have risen upon his respectable head.

Hubert and I returned to London alone, and when the train had started, my cousin took out a paper and put it into my hand.

“This,” he said, “was with Uncle Nicolas’ Will. Under seal, of course. I’ve shown it to nobody else.”

Dear Hubert,

You and your cousin John are now the owners of Hohenems. Directly or indirectly the neighbouring House of Haydn will press you to sell this estate, and, if you decline to sell it, to let it on lease. Do neither. They desire it not for itself, but for something the property holds. What this may be is their secret. Their anxiety argues that it is of great value, but, though I would have met them, their avarice will not allow them to come to terms. You may put your trust in Harris, who will tell you as much as I know.

Your affectionate uncle, Nicolas Ferrers.

I looked from the letter to Hubert, as a man in a dream.

“Read it again,” he said. “There’s plenty of room for guesswork and I want to hear what you think.”

Again I read the letter, though the sentences danced before me, as well they might.

Suddenly I noticed the date.

“This is five years old,” I cried. “Perhaps since then . . .” I looked up swiftly. “Was this why he wanted to see us?”

“Good,” said Hubert. “That’s just what I asked myself. And now you’ve confirmed the fancy, I think we’re right. I don’t say he’d found the secret, but I think he was getting warm, and, if there was work to be done, he may have wanted our help.”

I returned to the letter, and Hubert lighted a pipe.

At length—

“Well, it’s up to us,” said I, “to start all over again. If only Harris had lived. . . .”

“It’s just as well he didn’t,” said Hubert.

His words surprised me so much that a match I had struck burned its way to my fingers before I had found my tongue.

As I flung it down with a cry—

“Just as well,” repeated Hubert, “so far as we are concerned.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I never liked Harris,” said Hubert. “And I don’t think Harris liked us. Why Uncle Nick employed him, I never knew. A case of Homer nodding, I rather think. I saw more of him than you, and he wasn’t a man I’d trust.”

“You mean?”

Hubert laid down his pipe.

“Harris knew the secret all right—or, at least, as much of the secret as Uncle Nick knew. And he knew, of course, that his master proposed to disclose it to us. Very well, then. Why didn’t Harris tell us before he died? Because he didn’t mean us to know. Either he hoped to survive us and use the knowledge himself, or else he meant his brother to use it—that brother who came too late.

“Now I wouldn’t charge a dead man, if I wasn’t sure of my facts, but as soon as I’d opened this letter—you were in Town—I went to the hospital and saw the doctors and nurses in charge of the case.

“Harris lived seventeen hours, but he never lost consciousness once. The first thing he asked was whether Uncle Nick was alive or dead. They told him that he was alive, but badly hurt. A lie, of course, but they wanted to temper the wind. Well, Harris didn’t believe it. He was almost sure he was dead and he kept on hammering at them to tell him the truth. Then he demanded to see him, and when they said he couldn’t, he made such a scene that at last they threw in their hand and said he was dead.

“‘Killed on the spot?’ says Harris.

“They told him yes.

“‘Good,’ says Harris. ‘Am I going to live or die?’

“I suppose he saw the answer clear in their eyes, for before they could lie again—

“‘Then wire for my brother,’ he said, and gave them the fellow’s address.

“Then he asked how long they gave him and started to fight for his life.

“I asked them if when we came, he was in a condition to talk.

“The nurses looked ill at ease.

“Then—

“‘I’m afraid he was pretending,’ said one. ‘After you’d gone he said he was nothing to you and you were nothing to him.’

“Well, there you are. He knew Uncle Nick couldn’t talk, because he was dead. And he wasn’t going to talk, because he meant to rob us of what was ours.

“But with it all, the fellow did himself down.

“Such was his will to live that his state deceived the doctors, and when he asked how long he’d got, they gave him thirty-six hours. The consequence was that he reckoned on living till noon at the very least, and he knew that his brother could get there by nine o’clock. So he never wrote anything down.

“Now mark how he died.

“At three in the morning he felt himself beginning to go. At once he asked for pencil and paper, raving and cursing like a madman because he had been ‘deceived.’ When the paper was brought he hadn’t the strength to write, and there seems no doubt that his frenzy hastened his end. More to soothe him than anything else, one of the women offered to write any message he wished his brother to have. He jumped at this and started in to dictate.

“‘Go to Hohenems,’ he said. ‘There—’

“And that was as far as he got. I believe his struggles were frightful, for though the brain was there, he couldn’t get out the words. I don’t feel very charitable towards him, but if in fact he’s done us, he’s paid a part of his debt.”

As soon as I could find my tongue—

“And what of his brother?” said I. “Did they tell him the truth?”

“Some of it,” said Hubert. “They gave him the paper, of course. It seems his manner was curious. He showed no sign of surprise, but he asked more than once if they’d no idea of the words which his brother had tried to say. He said they concerned some papers which had a particular bearing upon the family name.”

“He was in it,” said I thickly.

“Without a doubt,” said Hubert. “Harris had told him something, but not enough.”

I set my head in my hands and tried to think, and if my thoughts were bitter, I think I may be excused.

Dead Nicolas Ferrers had been most grossly betrayed and we, his heirs, had been deliberately spoiled. This by a man to whom we had always been civil, in whom our great-uncle reposed an absolute trust.

I found myself wondering what manner of man this had been that could on his deathbed, so far from repenting his sins, conceive and coolly commit so shabby a crime.

Go to Hohenems.

The words lit up my darkness as the sudden beam of a lighthouse a sullen sea.

We would indeed go to Hohenems—and wring from the place its secret, if it took us the rest of our lives. Its value was nothing: by our great-uncle’s Will we had now enough and to spare: but Harris had robbed us, and now his helpless ghost should sweat and writhe to watch us inch by inch recover our rights.

I sat up and looked at Hubert.

“And Harris the Second?” said I. “What will he do?”

“I rather imagine,” said Hubert, “he’ll do as he’s told.”

Go to Hohenems . . .

I started up from my seat.

“Damn it,” I cried, “the man may be halfway there.”

“I doubt it,” said Hubert. “He’d have to make some plans. But if he is going, I guess he won’t waste any time. D’you think we can get off to-morrow—to-morrow night?”

“I shan’t sleep if we don’t,” said I.

“No more shall I,” said Hubert. “And now let’s make a list of what we must get and do.”

That our list was comprehensive was due to Hubert alone, for I was too much excited to be of use. Indeed, whatever he said I wrote down like any clerk, and if he had stated that we must take with us a tank, I should have entered the item without a thought.

Not that our equipment was heavy: indeed, it included few things which someone about to travel would not have bought: but among these were three good torches and a pistol apiece.

Though I had a car, we decided to go out by train, for so we should travel faster and arrive less tired, while, as for a means of transport, once we had left the train, there must, we felt sure, belong to the castle some car which would serve our needs.

Hubert then suggested that we should take with us his man, for we had, of course, no idea of the household which we should find: to this I was happy to agree, for I knew and liked the fellow and was sure he would pull his weight.

But the most important arrangement we had to make concerned our own reception at the castle which now was ours. It seemed unlikely that Hohenems knew as yet that its master was dead. Those in charge of the place must, therefore, be told forthwith, and, what was much more to the point, they had to be satisfied that Hubert and I had the right to stand in our great-uncle’s shoes. This might be none too easy to bring about—except, of course, at the cost of a long delay, and our train was nearing London before we had settled the course which, of what wisdom we had, we thought we should shape.

If the servants were prudent, they would require something more than the word of two utter strangers before they allowed them to sit in their master’s seat: and we could not help feeling that documents written in English would, as the saying goes, cut but little ice with a faithful Austrian staff. To be sure, we had the few keys which our great-uncle had upon him at the time of his death: but keys cannot speak for themselves and will turn as well for rogues as for honest men. When we saw the lawyer, however, upon the following day, he laughed our suggestions to scorn, declaring that changes like this were taking place every day and that orders in English would run in any country where people could read and write. With that, he telegraphed to Hohenems, stating the facts and saying that we should arrive in two days’ time, and he then made an affidavit, to which was attached The Times’ report of the inquest and a copy of my great-uncle’s Will. This we were to take with us, and, since he would do no more, we had it translated into German, as also the Will. With these papers and our passports for warrant we had, then, to be content, but I think we both had more faith in Nicolas Ferrers’ ring, which was now upon my finger and bore the family crest. While this did not prove that I was the heir-at-law—for, for all the servants knew, I might have killed their master and seized his ring—at least on the back of my wrist-watch there was the same device.

We did not leave London that evening, as we had hoped, for we found that we should do better to take the morning train, and I must confess that, for all my impatience to be gone, had we left Town that day we must have left undone a third of the things which we had arranged to do. As it was, I drove to the station without a care, to find my cousin before me and Stiven, his man, with my labels already addressed.

Hubert Constable was twenty-six years of age, while I was but twenty-two. He was tall and fair, as his mother had been before him, and people turned to regard him as he went by. His manner was always pleasant, but very quiet, while the steady look in his eyes argued a resolution which, once he had summoned it, nothing would ever shake. Though those that knew him slightly found him more grave than gay, he had a high sense of humour, and his temper was remarkably even, although, when he had just cause, I have known him put out. He shared with me a love of the countryside, and if I knew more about cars, he was a very fine rider and had a way with a horse.

Stiven was at home in the country, for he was a farmer’s son. He was young and strong and pleasant, did cheerfully all that was asked him and much beside. As I think was natural, he thought the world of Hubert, but, because he was a good servant, he served me just as swiftly and just as well. His honesty sat in his eyes, and he had a good, quick brain which he was not afraid to use.

All the world seemed to be travelling, and our train was so full that we could not discuss our adventure without being overheard. I, therefore, stared out of window and wished for the coast, for I could think of nothing but Hohenems and the secret which was so precious in so many eyes.

It was while we were crossing the Channel, leaning upon the ship’s rail and making the most of the privacy of the breeze, that Hubert proposed to take Stiven into our confidence.

“You see,” he said, “it’s like this. It’s as well to be forewarned when you’re going into the blue. On the face of it, we’re going to visit the castle which now is ours—to take possession, as any legatee would. In fact we’ve another object, but, as long as we can, I suggest we should keep that quiet. Nobody knows that we even know there’s a secret, and I’ve taken good care to leave that letter behind. Very well. Now the House of Haydn—whoever or whatever that means—and Harris are out to steal our cake. We shall resist them, of course: but we shall resist them far better if, while they think we know nothing, in fact we all know very well what their motives are. I say ‘all,’ because I mean ‘all.’ So long as your enemy thinks that you know nothing, your eyes and ears may be extremely useful. And there’s nothing the matter with Stiven’s eyes and ears.”

“I’m perfectly happy,” said I. “I only hope he knows more German than I.”

“Ah,” said Hubert ruefully, “that’s where we come unstuck. Still, I don’t suppose foreign tongues are Harris’ strong point, and as soon as we’ve had a look round we must try and get hold of some fellow to teach us to talk.”

“That’ll take us years,” said I.

“Months,” said Hubert. “But what of that? We’re not going to find out this secret in seven days.”

With that he knocked out his pipe, and we went to lunch.

We left Paris that night in a comfortable sleeping-compartment, which, when its doors were shut, made as private a closet as ever was built in a house. Such was the roar of the train that nobody listening without could have heard what was said, so when Stiven came for orders before he retired, my cousin bade him come in and told him the truth.

He heard Hubert out in silence. Then, without any comment, he asked what Harris was like.

“Harris,” said I, “is a man of about forty-five. He’s tall and thin and clean-shaven, with sandy hair, with a curious, sneering expression, and very big hands.”

“Might he be on this train, sir?”

“I hardly think so,” said Hubert. “Why d’you ask?”

“There was someone on the platform at Paris, sir, watching you very close. I couldn’t see him too well, but he wasn’t tall. I didn’t give it a thought: but now you’ve told me this, sir, he may have been on the job.”

“He may,” said Hubert. “I don’t think it very likely. Harris won’t work alone, of course. But I can hardly believe that he’d get off the mark so soon. And now you go and turn in. You’ll have to get up at the frontier to see the big baggage through. That’ll be about three in the morning. And when you do, you might look out for your friend. If you want us, you know where we are. But if you don’t, sleep well and get your breakfast and be here at eight o’clock.”

With that, we bade him good night, and Stiven withdrew.

His suspicion of the stranger at Paris was very much to my taste and spiced our journey for me as nothing else could have done: but Hubert frowned on my excitement and began to deplore the fact that when we got out of the train we should know no more what to expect than the man in the moon.

This, of course, was true.

We knew that Hohenems existed and that Mittal was the name of the station at which we ought to alight—this, because it was printed at the head of the notepaper Nicolas Ferrers had used. And that was the sum of our knowledge. Of the size of the estate, its approach, its appearance and condition, how far it lay from Mittal, how many servants were there, of our great-uncle’s orders and habits and way of life we had not the faintest idea. Upon all these matters, however, it seemed much more than likely that Harris was well-informed, so that if indeed he was moving, he would have us at a grave disadvantage until we could grow familiar with our inheritance.

“All the same,” said Hubert, “possession’s nine points of the law—and often ten. He may know Hohenems backwards, but we’ve the right to turn the key in the door. But I hope he doesn’t monkey with the servants: they’re bound to be a bit restive at the thought of a new regime.”

Here the attendant arrived, to make our beds, and the last thing I remember that night was the rude, insistent rhythm of the wheels of the sleeping-car.

We were awakened at the frontier, where Customs Officers entered and opened one of our bags, but, though I half expected to see him, Stiven did not knock on the door until eight o’clock.

And then he had nothing to report.

It was past midday before we came to Salzburg. There we left our train and changed to that which should bring us to Mittal that evening by half past five.

I need hardly say that our eyes were now wide open and ready to mark anyone who was looking at us: but though the station was busy, nobody there aroused even my suspicion—and I was ready to believe every porter in Harris’ pay.

In the course of the next four hours we ran through some lovely country, as rich and sweet and varied as ever I saw. Forests, like seas, swelled up the flanks of mountains and flowed about white and red castles, like those of the fairytales: green meadows, like those of England, were neighboured by oaks and poplars and threaded by placid streams, while the grey of the farms that kept them peered between limes and chestnuts to argue the simple existence of bygone days: valley and glade and falling water, high moor and smiling plain—there was nothing that was not attractive in all we saw: and I could not help feeling that if this was to be our portion we were indeed more lucky than I had dreamed.

Then at last we ran into Mittal—a little wisp of a village, whose only street was scarcely as long as our train.

As this slowed down, I noticed a man on the platform who had plainly come to Mittal to meet some passenger. He was dressed in a plain blue suit and was wearing a chauffeur’s cap: what was more, he was plainly English, and his cheerful, birdlike air contrasted sharply with that of the burly porters that stood at his heels.

“We’re home,” said Hubert, clapping me on the back. “I never hoped for such luck, but I’ll lay a fiver he’s here to meet you and me.”

And so he was.

As we left the corridor-carriage he met us at the foot of the steps.

“Mr. Ferrers, sir?” he inquired, with a hand to his hat.

“That’s right,” said I. “And this is Mr. Constable.”

“Pleased to see you, sir. My name’s Bugle. I’m the chauffeur at Hohenems.” He turned to the porters. “Here, you two. Get hold of the gentlemen’s stuff.”

I could have put my arms round his jolly neck.

We were over the jump which might have been so awkward—and that with no more effort than if the worthy Bugle had known us for twenty years. Apart from this, I liked the look of the man. He was a sprightly fellow and had, I judged, been a groom. He was broad and well-developed, though something short: his air was gay and he had an engaging smile, and though his features were rugged, I liked him no less for that. Whether the other servants were English or no, Bugle was English and Bugle was now our man.

As Stiven came up—

“This is my servant,” said Hubert. “Have you brought a closed car?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, sir. The closed car’s away for repairs. But I thought perhaps you’d leave your big baggage here and then, when I’ve taken you home, I’ll come back with the van.”

“I suppose there’s a cloakroom.”

“I really don’t know, sir. The best way is not to claim it. They’ll keep it safe till someone produces the check.”

“So they will,” said Hubert.

So Stiven put the slip in his pocket and we made our way to the car.

“I suppose you know nothing,” said I, “beyond what the telegram said.”

“Not a word, sir,” said Bugle. “It come as a bit of a shock. But, of course, he was very old, sir: and whenever I took him to the station I always used to wonder if ever I’d see him again.”

Then he turned to hustle the porters, and we got into the car. This was of German make, very sturdily built and something the worse for wear, and it had the look of a car which is kept to be used when errands have to be done.

Though he used no German, Bugle was one of those men whose brisk and lively demeanour speaks for itself. The porters fell over themselves to do his will, and within two minutes all our smaller baggage had been bestowed, Stiven was seated by Bugle and the latter had tipped the porters and let in the clutch.

“How far is Hohenems?” said Hubert.

“Twenty-two miles, sir,” said Bugle. “But it’s a handsome run.”

The moment we ran out of Mittal, we seemed to plunge into the country which we had so much admired. Of this the most striking feature was the fewness of habitations of any kind. The farms were lonely and their holdings must have been broad: here and there an inn or a cottage stood like some verderer’s lodge, and fourteen miles went by before we ran through a village, white-walled and clean and lit by the setting sun. Of great houses we saw none at all, but I afterwards found that the more important mansions stood almost always three or four miles from the road and, unless they were built upon some eminence, could not be seen. The traffic we met was unbelievably light, and for most of the way we seemed to have the roads to ourselves.

We had gone some eighteen miles and were storming up a steep hill in the heart of a wood, when we swung round a sudden bend to see a man lying prone in the midst of the way.

He was rudely dressed as a peasant and might have been crossing the road towards a ruinous cottage that stood back among the trees.

Bugle applied his brakes and brought the car at once to the side of the way: but Stiven was out before him and had run to the fallen man.

By the time that Hubert and I were out of the car Stiven and Bugle had turned him on to his face, but though the fellow was breathing, he made no sound. His body was slack, but I saw that his teeth were clenched and a smother of foam was blowing about his lips.

“Looks like a fit, sir,” said Bugle. “I expect that’s his cottage there. Shall we carry him in?”

“We can’t do less,” said Hubert.

He and I crossed to the cottage and knocked on the crazy door, but, since there was no answer, Hubert pushed this open and held it wide.

The place was dark, for the day was almost spent and the trees all about were preventing what light there was, but I made out a cheerless kitchen with all one wall a fireplace in which the ashes were cold.

Then I stood aside, and Stiven and Bugle carried their burden in.

As they laid the man down on the bricks with which the kitchen was floored—

“The flask,” said Hubert to me. “It’s in the dispatch-case.”

I hastened back to the car and found the flask. Then I ran back to the cottage, whose door had swung to. I pushed it open and entered. As I did so, something hit me on the back of my head and I crumpled and fell down senseless with the flask in my hand.

I afterwards found that more than an hour had gone by before I sat up.

The first thing that I remember was feeling uncommon cold, and I know that I groped for the rug which Bugle had spread at Mittal about our knees, supposing myself to be in the open car. Then my senses returned with a shock, and I knew I had been hit on the head and had lost my wits. Except that my head was aching and that I felt something dazed, I seemed to be none the worse, and when I put up my hand, I could find no blood.

As I got to my feet, I found that my coat was open, and an instant later I knew that I had been robbed. All my pockets were empty, and the pistol I had carried was gone.

This sudden, sinister discovery put all else out of my mind, and I must have stood still a full minute, before I remembered that Hubert and Stiven and Bugle had yet to be found.

Without the moon was shining, and, thinking to lighten the room, I turned to the door: with the first step I took, however, I trod on a box of matches, and a moment later I had the light I desired.

Hubert was lying face upward three feet from where I stood. His coats were open and I made no doubt that he had been stripped, as I had, of all that he had. Stiven lay prone beyond him, with his head on the hearth. I saw no sign of Bugle, and the peasant was gone.

At first I thought that my companions were dead, but when I found they were breathing, I began to do what I could to bring them round. I loosened their collars and tucked their coats under their heads: then I went out in search of water, for somewhere near at hand I could hear the song of a brook.

I more than half expected that Bugle would be lying outside, but he was not there and I saw no sign of the car. With my head in a whirl, I turned from the road and made my way to the brook which was running behind the cottage beneath the trees.

I had, of course, no vessel in which to carry the water I meant to bring; but I used my hat, as they do in the story-books, and I never would have believed it would serve my purpose so well.

Two minutes later my cousin was sitting up, and Stiven was stirring and blinking and putting a hand to his head.

I returned to Hubert.

“Can you think?” I cried. “Can you think? Can you understand?”

“Not very well,” says Hubert, feeling his coat. “I have an idea we’ve been done. That peasant . . .”

“That’s right,” said I. “That peasant was the decoy. The others were in this cottage, waiting to lay us out.”

“Harris?” said Hubert, holding his head in his hands.

“I’m rather afraid so. Of course, I may be wrong. They may have been common robbers, with no idea who we are. But if it is Harris——”

“Harris for a monkey,” said Hubert. “They’ve taken the car?”

I nodded.

Hubert sighed.

“And our papers and passports and everything that is ours. Where’s Bugle?”

“He isn’t here,” said I. “I imagine he’s out in the road.”

Stiven was up on his feet with his back to the wall.

“Bugle,” he cried. “That’s his name.”

“Sit down,” said Hubert. “You’ll be all right in a minute. You’ve been knocked out.”

“I know, sir,” said Stiven. “I couldn’t remember his name. It was him that done it, sir. He hit me under the jaw.”

We stared at the man in the half light, for I had set a stone to hold open the door.

“You’re dreaming,” said Hubert. “Bugle had come to meet us.”

“I know, sir. But he’s a boxer. Didn’t you notice his ears? I was bending over the peasant, and when I looked up, as you fell, he hit me under the jaw. I saw his smile as he did it, and then I went out.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Then—

“My God,” said Hubert quietly, “Bugle was Harris’ man.”

For a moment my brain zigzagged. Then, to my horror, I saw the depth of the pit into which we had fallen, which Harris indeed had dug.

Bugle and the car he was driving had no more to do with Hohenems than the train by which we had come. They had been provided by Harris—to do his will. And this had been done with a vengeance. Not only had we been ‘side-tracked,’ but Harris had obtained our credentials, and he and some other would pose as Hubert and I. Not a soul in Austria knew them or us by sight: with our names, our papers, our luggage, they would enter into our home, and, once they were there . . .

Hubert’s words of the night before came flaming into my mind.

‘Possession’s nine points of the law—and often ten.’