A DUBIOUS REFUGE
I was going so fast that everything seemed to happen simultaneously.
I had one blurred vision of him spinning round and yelling to me to
stop: then the next moment I had flashed past him and was racing
across the bridge.
Whether he recognized me for certain I can't say. I think not, or he
would probably have fired sooner than he did: as it was, my rush had
carried me three quarters of the way up the opposite hill before he
could make up his mind to risk a shot.
Bang went his carbine, and at the same instant, with a second loud
report, the tire of my back wheel abruptly collapsed. It was a good
shot if he had aimed for it, and what's more it came unpleasantly
near doing the trick. The old bike swerved violently, but with a wild
wrench I just succeeded in righting her. For a second I heard him
shouting and running behind me, and then, working like a maniac, I
bumped up the rest of the slope, and disappeared over the protecting
dip at the top.
Of my progress for the next mile or so I have only the most
confused recollection. It was like one of those ghastly things that
occasionally happen to one in a nightmare. I just remember pedalling
blindly along, with the back wheel grinding and jolting beneath me
and the moonlit road rising and falling ahead. It must have been more
instinct than anything else that kept me going, for I was in the last
stages of hunger and weariness, and most of the time I scarcely knew
what I was doing.
At last, after wobbling feebly up a long slope, I found I had reached
the extreme edge of the Moor. Right below me the road dropped down for
several hundred feet into a broad level expanse of fields and woods.
Six or seven miles away the lights of Plymouth and Devonport threw up
a yellow glare into the sky, and beyond that again I could just see
the glint of the moonlight shining on the sea.
It was no good stopping, for I knew that in an hour or so the mounted
warders would be again on my track. So clapping on both brakes, I
started off down the long descent, being careful not to let the
machine get away with me as it had done on the previous hill.
At the bottom, which I somehow reached in safety, I found a sign-post
with two hands, one marked Plymouth and the other Devonport. I took
the latter road, why I can hardly say, and summoning up my almost
spent energies I pedalled off shakily between its high hedges.
How I got as far as I did remains a mystery to me to this day. I fell
off twice from sheer weakness, but on each occasion I managed to drag
myself back into the saddle again, and it was not until my third
tumble, that I decided I could go no farther.
I was in a dark stretch of road bounded on each side by thick
plantations. It was a good place to lie up in, but unfortunately there
was another and more pressing problem in front of me. Half delirious
as I was, I realized that unless I could find something to eat that
night my career as an escaped convict was pretty near its end.
I picked myself up, and with a great effort managed to drag the
bicycle to the side of the road. Then, clutching the rail that bounded
the plantation, I began to stagger slowly forward along the slightly
raised path. I think I had a sort of vague notion that there might be
something to eat round the next corner.
I had progressed in this fashion for perhaps forty yards, when quite
unexpectedly both the trees and the railings came to an end. I
remained swaying and half incredulous for a moment: then I began to
realize that I was standing in front of an open gate looking up an
exceedingly ill-kept drive. At the end of this drive was a house, and
the moonlight shining full on the front of it showed me that the whole
place had about as forlorn and neglected an appearance as an inhabited
building could very well possess. That it was inhabited there could be
no doubt, for in the small glass square above the hall door I could
see a feeble glimmer of light.
No one could have called it an inviting-looking place, but then I
wasn't exactly waiting for invitations where a chance of food was
concerned. I just slipped in at the gate, and keeping well in the
shadow of the bushes that bounded the drive, I crept slowly and
unsteadily forward until I reached a point opposite the front door. I
crouched there for a moment, peering up at the house. Except for that
flickering gas jet there was no sign of life anywhere; all the windows
were shuttered or else in complete darkness.
At first I had a wild idea of ringing the bell and pretending to be
a starving tramp. Then I remembered that my description had no doubt
been circulated all round the neighbourhood, and that if there was
any one in the place they would probably recognize me at once as the
missing convict. This choked me off, for though as a rule I have no
objection to a slight scuffle, I felt that in my present condition the
average housemaid could knock me over with the flick of a duster.
The only alternative scheme that suggested itself to my numbed mind
was to commit another burglary. There was a path running down the side
of the house, which apparently led round to the back, and it struck
me that if I followed this I might possibly come across an unfastened
window. Anyhow, it was no good waiting about till I collapsed from
exhaustion, so, getting on my feet, I slunk along the laurels as far
as the end of the drive, and then crept across in the shadow of an
overhanging tree.
I made my way slowly down the path, keeping one hand against the wall,
and came out into a small square yard, paved with cobbles, where I
found myself looking up at the back of the house. There was a door
in the middle with two windows on either side of it, and above these
several other rooms--all apparently in complete darkness.
I was beginning to feel horribly like fainting, but by sheer
will-power I managed to pull myself together. Going up to the nearest
window I peered through the pane. I could see the dim outline of a
table with some plates on it just inside, and putting my hand against
the bottom sash I gave it a gentle push. It yielded instantly, sliding
up several inches with a wheezy rattle that brought my heart into my
mouth.
For a moment or two I waited, listening intently for any sound of
movement within the house. Then, as nothing happened, I carefully
raised the sash a little higher, and poked my head in through the
empty window-frame.
It was the kitchen all right: there could be no doubt about that. A
strong smell of stale cooking pervaded the warm darkness, and that
musty odour brought tears of joy into my eyes. I took one long
luxurious sniff, and then with a last effort I hoisted myself up and
scrambled in over the low sill.
As my feet touched the floor there was a sharp click. A blinding flash
of light shot out from the darkness, striking me full in the face, and
at the same instant a voice remarked quietly but firmly: "Put up your
hands."
I put them up.
There was a short pause: then from the other end of the room a man in
a dressing-gown advanced slowly to the table in the centre. He was
holding a small electric torch in one hand and a revolver in the
other. He laid down the former with the light still pointing straight
at my face.
"If you attempt to move," he remarked pleasantly, "I shall blow your
brains out."
With this he walked to the side of the room, struck a match against
the wall, and reaching up turned on the gas.
I was much too dazed to do anything, even if I had had the chance. I
just stood there with my hands up, rocking slightly from side to side,
and wondering how long it would be before I tumbled over.
My captor remained for a moment under the light, peering at me in
silence. He seemed to be a man of about sixty--a thin, frail man
with white hair and a sharp, deeply lined face. He wore gold-rimmed
pince-nez, behind which a pair of hard grey eyes gleamed at me in
malicious amusement.
At last he took a step forward, still holding the revolver in his
hand.
"A stranger!" he observed. "Dear me--what a disappointment! I hope Mr.
Latimer is not ill?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, but his voice sounded very
far away.
"If you keep me standing like this much longer," I managed to jerk
out, "I shall most certainly faint."
I saw him raise his eyebrows in a sort of half-mocking smile.
"Indeed," he said, "I thought--"
What he thought I never heard, for the whole room suddenly went dim,
and with a quick lurch the floor seemed to get up and spin round
beneath my feet. I suppose I must have pitched forward, for the last
thing I remember is clutching wildly but vainly at the corner of the
kitchen table.
* * * * *
My first sensation on coming round was a burning feeling in my lips
and throat. Then I suddenly realized that my mouth was full of brandy,
and with a surprised gulp I swallowed it down and opened my eyes.
I was lying back in a low chair with a cushion under my head. Standing
in front of me was the gentleman in the dressing-gown, only instead of
a revolver he now held an empty wine-glass in his hand. When he saw
that I was recovering he stepped back and placed it on the table.
There was a short pause.
"Well, Mr. Lyndon," he said slowly, "and how are you feeling now?"
A hasty glance down showed me that the jacket of my overalls had been
unbuttoned at the neck, exposing the soaked and mud-stained prison
clothes beneath. I saw that the game was up, but for the moment I was
too exhausted to care.
My captor leaned against the end of the table watching me closely.
"Are you feeling any better?" he repeated.
I made a feeble attempt to raise myself in the chair. "I don't know,"
I said weakly; "I'm feeling devilish hungry."
He stepped forward at once, his lined face breaking into something
like a smile.
"Don't sit up. Lie quite still where you are, and I will get you
something to eat. Have you had any food today?"
I shook my head. "Only rain-water," I said.
"You had better start with some bread and milk, then. You have been
starving too long to eat a big meal straight away."
Crossing the room, he pushed open a door which apparently led into the
larder, and then paused for a moment on the threshold.
"You needn't try to escape," he added, turning back to me. "I am not
going to send for the police."
"I don't care what you do," I whispered, "as long as you hurry up with
some grub."
Lying there in the sort of semi-stupor that comes from utter
exhaustion, I listened to him moving about in the larder apparently
getting things ready. For the moment all thoughts of danger or
recapture had ceased to disturb me. Even the unexpected fashion
in which I was being treated did not strike me as particularly
interesting or surprising: my whole being was steeped in a sense of
approaching food.
I saw him re-enter the room, carrying a saucepan, which he placed on
a small stove alongside the fireplace. There was the scratching of a
match followed by the pop of a gas-ring, and half-closing my eyes I
lay back in serene and silent contentment.
I was aroused by the chink of a spoon, and the splash of something
liquid being poured out. Then I saw my host coming towards me,
carrying a large steaming china bowl in his hand.
"Here you are," he said. "Do you think you can manage to feed
yourself?"
I didn't trouble to answer. I just seized the cup and spoon, and the
next moment I was wolfing down a huge mouthful of warm bread and milk
that seemed to me the most perfect thing I had ever tasted. It was
followed rapidly by another and another, all equally beautiful.
My host stood by watching me with a sort of half-amused interest.
"I shouldn't eat it quite so fast," he observed. "It will do you more
good if you take it slowly."
The first few spoonfuls had already partly deadened my worst pangs,
so following his advice I slackened down the pace to a somewhat more
normal level. Even then I emptied the bowl in what I think must
have been a record time, and with a deep sigh I handed it to him to
replenish.
I was feeling better--distinctly better. The food, the rest in the
chair, and the comparative warmth of the room were all doing me good
in their various ways, and for the first time I was beginning to
realize clearly where I was and what had happened.
I suppose my host noticed the change, for he looked at me in an
approving fashion as he gave me my second helping.
"There you are," he said in that curious dry voice of his. "Eat that
up, and then we'll have a little conversation. Meanwhile--" he paused
and looked round--"well, if you have no objection I think I will shut
that window. I daresay you have had enough fresh air for today."
I nodded--my mouth was too full for any more elaborate reply--and
crossing the room he closed the sash and pulled down the blind.
"That's better," he observed, gently rubbing his hands together; "now
we are more comfortable and more private. By the way, I don't think I
have introduced myself yet. My name is McMurtrie--Doctor McMurtrie."
"I am charmed to meet you," I said, swallowing down a large chunk of
bread.
He nodded his head, smiling. "The pleasure is a mutual one, Mr.
Lyndon--quite a mutual one."
The words were simple and smooth enough in themselves, but somehow or
other the tone in which they were uttered was not altogether to my
taste. It seemed to carry with it the faint suggestion of a cat
purring over a mouse. Still I was hardly in a position to be too
fastidious, so I accepted his compliment, and went on calmly with my
bread and milk.
With the same rather catlike smile Dr. McMurtrie drew up a chair
and sat down opposite to me. He kept his right hand in his pocket,
presumably on the revolver.
"And now," he said, "perhaps you have sufficiently recovered to be
able to tell me a little about yourself. At present my knowledge of
your adventures is confined to the account of your escape in this
morning's _Daily Mail_."
I slowly finished the last spoonful of my second helping, and placed
the cup beside me on the floor. It was a clumsy device to gain time,
for now that the full consciousness of my surroundings had returned to
me, I was beginning to think that Dr. McMurtrie's methods of receiving
an escaped convict were, to say the least, a trifle unusual. Was his
apparent friendliness merely a blind, or did it hide some still deeper
purpose, of which at present I knew nothing?
He must have guessed my thoughts, for leaning back in his chair he
remarked half-mockingly: "Come, Mr. Lyndon, it doesn't pay to be too
suspicious. If it will relieve your mind, I can assure you I have no
immediate intention of turning policeman, even for the magnificent sum
of--how much is it--five pounds, I believe? On mere business grounds I
think it would be underrating your market value."
The slight but distinct change in his voice in the last remark
invested it with a special significance. I felt a sudden conviction
that for some reason of his own Dr. McMurtrie did not intend to give
me up--at all events for the present.
"I will tell you anything you want to know with pleasure," I said.
"Where did the _Daily Mail_ leave off?"
He laughed curtly, and thrusting the other hand into his pocket pulled
out a silver cigarette-case.
"If I remember rightly," he said, "you had just taken advantage of the
fog to commit a brutal and quite unprovoked assault upon a warder." He
held out the case.
"But try one of these before you start," he added. "They are a special
brand from St. Petersburg, and I think you will enjoy them. There
is nothing like a little abstinence to make one appreciate a good
tobacco."
With a shaking hand I pressed the spring. It was three years since I
had smoked my last cigarette--a cigarette handed me by the inspector
in that stuffy little room below the dock, where I was waiting to be
sentenced to death.
If I live to be a hundred I shall never forget my sensations as I
struck the match which my host handed me and took in that first
fragrant mouthful. It was so delicious that for a moment I remained
motionless from sheer pleasure; then lying back again in my chair with
a little gasp I drew another great cloud of smoke deep down into my
lungs.
The doctor waited, watching me with a kind of cynical amusement.
"Don't hurry yourself, Mr. Lyndon," he observed, "pray don't hurry
yourself. It is a pleasure to witness such appreciation."
I took him at his word, and for perhaps a couple of minutes we sat
there in silence while the blue wreaths of smoke slowly mounted
and circled round us. Then at last, with a delightful feeling of
half-drugged contentment, I sat up and began my story.
I told it him quite simply--making no attempt to conceal or exaggerate
anything. I described how the idea of making a bolt had come suddenly
into my mind, and how I had acted on it without reflection or
hesitation. Step by step I went quietly through my adventures, from
the time when the fog had rolled down to the moment when, half
fainting with hunger and exhaustion, I had climbed in through his
kitchen window.
Leaning on the arm of his chair, he listened to me in silence. As far
as any movement or change of expression was concerned a statue could
scarcely have betrayed less interest, but all the time the steady
gleam of his eyes never shifted from my face.
When I had finished he remained there for several seconds in the same
attitude. Then at last he gave a short mirthless laugh.
"It must be pleasant to be as strong as you are," he said. "I should
have been dead long ago."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, I don't exactly feel like going to a
dance," I answered.
He got up and walked slowly as far as the window, where he turned
round and stood staring at me thoughtfully. At last he appeared to
make up his mind.
"You had better go to bed," he said, "and we will talk things over in
the morning. You are not fit for anything more tonight."
"No, I'm not," I admitted frankly; "but before I go to bed I should
like to feel a little more certain where I'm going to wake up."
There was a faint sound outside and I saw him raise his head. It was
the distant but unmistakable hum of a motor, drawing nearer and nearer
every moment. For a few seconds we both stood there listening: then
with a sudden shock I realized that the car had reached the house and
was turning in at the drive.
Weak as I was I sprang from my chair, scarcely feeling the thrill of
pain that ran through me at the effort.
"By God!" I cried fiercely, "you've sold me!"
He whipped out the revolver, pointing it full at my face.
"Sit down, you fool," he said. "It's not the police."