Читать книгу The Scales of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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George Drummond stood in the corridor watching the movement of the slim hand on the casement. He had a feeling that he would wake presently and find that it was all a dream. And, with it all was the horrible feeling that perhaps he was doing something wrong. Was he taking part in some crime? he wondered. Was this girl using him, for some ignoble and unworthy end? Beyond doubt the hand clinging to the casement was that of the escaped convict, and Flora Cameron was anxious for his escape.

George stole a quick glance at the face of his companion, and his heart lifted. It was impossible to look at those features, and feel that anything wrong was being done here. The girl seemed to divine something of George's feelings, for she laid a trembling hand upon his arm.

"Try to trust me," she whispered. "I want you to believe that I am acting entirely for the best. I have thought the thing out carefully, and I feel that the angels are on my side. You guess that yonder hand belongs to a convict?"

"It is obvious," George said.

"Well, you are right. That man has broken prison. I have gone out of my way to help him do so. A dreadful charge hangs over you, but you are innocent."

"You cannot tell what a comfort your opinion is to me," George whispered.

"You are innocent—innocent. From your face and manner I guessed that. My woman's instinct admits of no doubt of it. And, let me tell you with all the earnestness I can, that yonder poor fellow is as guiltless as yourself, Captain Drummond. I am going to ask you to help me."

George caught the hand extended to him, and carried it passionately to his lips. His whole heart had gone out to his companion. In the hour of his need she was the only one who had stood by him and believed his story. And she a stranger, too!

"I will do anything in the world that you ask me," he said. "I will do it, because you have proved yourself to be a good and noble girl, and because I feel that you are incapable of doing anything dishonourable. Pray command me."

George could see the flash of tears in Flora's eyes. Then suddenly the light vanished, and the corridor was left in total darkness. Apparently the search-light had been turned in another direction; anyway, the darkness was so thick that it could almost be felt. A moment later, and it seemed to George as if he felt somebody brushing past him; probably the convict had gained the shelter of the house. Another instant, and George dismissed the suggestion as a play of fancy.

He could hear footsteps coming in his direction; there were people in the garden calling to each other. Evidently the prison warders were close on the track. There was the quick flash of a lantern and a command in a hoarse voice.

"Oh, I do hope he has not failed," Flora whispered. "I must hide myself lest Dr. Beard should see me. He must not see me now, he must not know anything of this business. I will try to see you again presently. If you could only head those warders off the scent!"

"Show me a way," George said eagerly; "I will do anything that I can. But to do that, I must find a way of leaving the house. Is there any door at this end?"

"Oh, yes—yes! The little door under the turret. You must remember that door, seeing that you were here so much as a boy. A little door with a spring bolt."

George remembered the door. He pressed the girl's hand reassuringly, and then began to feel his way along the corridor in the direction of the stairs. Yes, this was the way, the recollection of it all was coming back clearly to him now. Many a time in the happy days of the past had he played hide-and-seek here. He had not the slightest difficulty in opening the little door and entering the garden. For some reason or other, it had been imperative that he should not be seen with Flora by Dr. Beard; indeed, he gathered that the convict business was to be concealed from that individual. But no suspicion need be aroused if Dr. Beard found him in the garden. He could easily answer that he had been aroused by the noise of the warders, and had come down to see what was wrong. The thing suggested prevarication, and George revolted against that. Still, the cause was a good one, and it seemed to him that the means justified the ends. It was just possible too, that the unhappy convict was already in the hands of the law. Not if George could prevent it, he told himself. He was determined on this point as he stepped into the outer air, and looked for any sign of the warders.

It was still bitterly cold, and a thin powder of snow had begun to fall again. For a few minutes there was nothing but silence and the desolation of the night. Then George could hear footsteps on the hard ground, and somebody in uniform came along swinging a light. The man stopped as he saw George standing there before him.

"Have you seen anything of a man about here, sir?" he asked.

George was thankful to be able to say that he had not. He was also thankful to gather from the question that the warders had not as yet been successful in their search. It seemed to him that he could see footprints leading up to the big casement window that seemed to light the corridor, but the falling snow and the keen wind would very soon cover all traces. George stood there waiting for the next thing to happen.

"It is impossible for your man to get clear away," he said.

"I'm not so sure about that, sir," the officer responded. "He had assistance. Somebody managed to lasso one of the warders and gag him. It's pretty certain that the prisoner did not do that. One of the cleverest things I ever heard of. And the man was not missed till late this evening. A bit of an oversight, perhaps, but there it was. And when we missed the warder as well, we began to suspect things."

"I hope your man was not any the worse," George suggested.

"No, sir; it wasn't what you might call violence exactly. A bit bruised and cold from lying there so long. It was a very neat dodge, but one might expect that kind of thing from a prisoner of education."

So the escaped convict was a gentleman, and a man of education, George thought. Well, he might have expected that, after what Flora Cameron had told him. The man with the lantern had not the faintest idea of the identity of the escaped prisoner, and it was obvious that he was telling the truth as he said so. Behind a belt of shrubs, George could see other lights flickering. He hoped that the convict was hiding close somewhere. It would be just as well, George determined, to find out exactly how many warders were present to-night, so that if one was left behind to watch, the fact would be known. There were four of them altogether and they were playing a game of grim hide-and-seek in the bushes.

"Are you quite sure that your man came in this direction?" George asked.

"Quite sure, sir," the other said. "The snow helped us a little, and our gentleman had not yet got rid of his prison boots. Then the snow came down again and baffled us. I expect you know the place, sir, seeing that you live in the house?"

"I don't live in the house," George explained. "I am a visitor here. All the same, I know the place very well indeed, I have known it intimately from a boy. I suppose you want to discover if there are any good hiding-places here?"

"That's it, sir," the other exclaimed. "Outhouses and all that kind of thing."

George wanted nothing better. As a matter of fact, there were many places in the grounds where a prisoner could hide for a long time, and George indicated some of them. He did so in a loud voice, so that he might warn anybody. There was a sound of scuffling presently, and the noise of a blow, and George felt his heart beating painfully fast.

"Got him!" somebody cried. "Got him, clean and clever. This way, mates."

The cry of exultation was quickly turned into a growl of discomfort, as the figure of a man, held by two of the warders, emerged into the ring of light made by a lantern. It was clear from the first glance that the captive was no escaped convict. The man was tall and powerful, he had a black beard, and a pair of powerful dark eyes. He was quite well dressed, with a suit of rough home-spun. There was a sardonic smile on his face.

"Shot at the pigeon and killed the crow," he said. "What am I doing here? Well, I guess that that's none of your business. You can't prove that I'm doing any harm, and even if you could, you are not policemen. My name, eh? Well, it's James Marston."

"James Marston, the poacher," one of the warders growled.

"Most people suspect me of being a poacher," the dark man said coolly. "I have had to suffer under that reproach for years. As a matter of fact I've never been convicted of poaching, and, whats more, I have never been before a magistrate on suspicion."

"But you are trespassing," George said.

"I am perfectly well aware of the fact, Captain Drummond," was the quick reply. "Trespassing is not an offence so long as you don't do any harm. I lost a dog, and I am looking for him here; I expect he has been caught in some poacher's wire. You will find that Dr. Beard will not object to my being here."

The man set his hat more firmly on his head, and vanished into the night. George knew the man very well indeed, and his reputation. He would have liked to detain him, but there were more pressing things to occupy his attention. The warders were all busy again looking about the grounds, though with fainter hopes of success.

"Well, lads, we'll just go through the plantation at the back of the house again," said the one who appeared to be the leader. "I suppose there is no chance that our gentleman has made a bolt of it and got into the house some where."

"I think you can make your mind quite easy on that score," George said "Only a trained burglar could break into the Moat House."

"I suppose that's about right, sir," the leader said. "A good look, mind lads, and then the best thing we can do is to get back to the gaol again. Its long odds that our man has found his friends by this time and got clear away."

George returned to the house and closed the door, satisfied that he had done his best to carry out Flora Cameron's wishes. The convict had managed to give his pursuers the slip just in the nick of time, and he was hiding somewhere close by. But would he come back again? It looked as if that was the intention, especially after what Flora had said. And if he did come back and all the doors and windows were fastened, how would he manage to let Flora know that he was at hand?

Tired as he was, George resolved to sit up and watch. His own window was open, and there was a good fire in his room. Perhaps Flora would be waiting in the corridor to know whether the prison warders had been successful or not. The house was quiet enough now, and very dark. It was fortunate that George was familiar with the way.

The little green door opened quietly, and George fastened it on the inside. Very gently he made his way up the stairs and in the direction of his own room. There was no light in the corridor, and he had to fumble his way along as best he could. He could see slits of light under one or two doors, denoting the fact that the occupants of more than one bedroom had not finally retired for the night.

George waited a brief space to see if Flora would appear. He did not dare to give any loud signal of his presence, and there was no sign of Miss Cameron. Well perhaps she would come back when she felt that it was safe. And it would be easy for George to put his light out, and leave his door open. He could lie on his bed and doze, trusting to his quick hearing to bring him to the first signal. Many a time had he done the like in South Africa. He laid his finger on the knob of his door, and turned it. He turned it twice, and pushed at the door, steadily, but it did not give. The door of the room was locked on the inside.

It was a startling, and not too pleasant, discovery. Even now it did not occur to George that perhaps there was somebody in the room. It was just possible that the bedroom door had a spring lock; perhaps at one time the bedroom had been used as an office, the owner of which did not care for the eyes of servants prying about.

George turned away, and hesitated for a moment in some perplexity.

"There is only one thing for it," he muttered. "I daresay I can manage it without those warders seeing me. It sounds almost like a farce, but there is nothing else to be done."