"They're goin' to a place called Upper Wooton, about half way between
Saltash and Callington, on the Launceston road. I know the village--
quite a tiny place," Gibbs said, as we went up the picturesque street of
Ashburton.
"Then we'd better go straight on there."
"They're goin' through Plymouth, but the most direct way, and much
shorter, is through Tavistock, which would bring us right into the
cross-roads at Callington. We'd save a couple of hours by that, and,
after all, they've got a `forty,' you know, while ours is only a
`sixteen'. They'll make better pace than us up the hills."
"Very well," I said, "I leave it to you. We must be there first, in any
case. Are they staying the night there?"
"Their man says so. 'E's a stranger, however, and 'e says they're a rum
party."
"Oh! Why?" I asked in quick surprise.
"Well--sir," responded Gibbs, somewhat reluctantly, "it ain't for me to
repeat what 'e said, seein' as they're friends o' yourn."
"Oh! whatever you say will make no difference," I assured him.
"Besides, they're not exactly my friends. Two of them I've never seen
before in my life. So you can speak quite frankly. Indeed, I'm very
anxious to hear what makes their man think they are mysterious." I
recollected that Murray's reticence had aroused the curiosity of the
hotel proprietor at Swanage, and wondered what else had occurred to
cause the chauffeur to suspect that something was wrong.
"The car belongs to somebody named Rusden, who lives in Worcestershire,
and the chauffeur is in his employ. Mr Rusden has lent the car to the
party," Gibbs explained. "The chauffeur started from Stourbridge
yesterday morning, with orders to meet a lady and gentleman at
Chippenham station at midnight last night, and take 'em on all through
the night to Swanage. There 'e picked up the gentleman and the young
lady, and after two hours' rest was ordered to drive on down to Plymouth
with all possible speed."
"But what makes him think there's any mystery about them? He, no doubt,
received orders from his master."
"No, 'e didn't. That's just it. Mr Rusden told him to go to
Chippenham and take the lady and gentleman to Aylesbury, whereas they
gave him orders entirely different. An' besides that, the chauffeur
overheard something this morning."
"What did he overhear?"
"The two men were talking together, and the elder said 'e hoped as 'ow
they wouldn't be followed, or the whole show 'ud be give away."
"Curious," I remarked. "Very curious."
"Yes, sir. 'E told me as 'ow all along the road they've been urgin' 'im
to go faster, but 'e wasn't goin' to risk being caught by a `heg'og'.
'E's evidently rather troubled, because 'e don't know what 'is master
'ull say at 'im comin' down here. Perhaps they're flyin' from the
police--who knows?"
I laughed his suggestion into ridicule, yet at heart I was much puzzled.
What could it mean?
Why were they in such fear of being followed?
"Well," I said, "at any rate we'll push on to Upper Wooton, and see what
they're going to do there."
"Then we'll go by Tavistock. The road is just off on the right, about a
mile or so farther on," my companion said. "We ought to be there before
dark, if we get no punctures," and he drew down his goggles from his cap
and increased the speed of the car.
Once or twice I looked back, but saw no sign of the blue car following
us. Murray and his friends were, no doubt, quietly having their tea in
that pretty old garden.
For nearly an hour I sat in rigid silence, as one so often does for long
periods when motoring. Was that round-faced fellow upon whom Ella had
smiled actually her lover? Who, I wondered, was the elder woman? And
why had they come to Chippenham at midnight to be met by a motor-car and
drive on through the night? There was certainly some motive in that
long night ride.
Was it possible that they were really escaping? It certainly seemed
very much like it.
Ella's movements in leaving Lucie and her father so suddenly, and in
flying from me when she had confessed that she still loved me, were all
suspicious. Some very strong and sinister motive underlay it all--of
that I felt absolutely convinced.
Darker clouds gathered over the hills between Two Bridges and Tavistock,
and another sharp shower fell, making us uncomfortably wet, but we
never, for one moment, slackened speed. The rain laid the dust, for
which we were thankful. At Gunnislake, just as the twilight was
falling, we crossed the Cornish border, and by lighting-up time we were
at the cross-roads outside Callington, with only four miles farther to
negotiate.
This we quickly accomplished, at last running into a quaint old-world
Cornish village which Gibbs informed me was the destination of the
suspicious quartette.
There was but one inn, "The Crown," and putting the car into the
coach-house there, we ordered dinner. Cold meat and beer were all that
the landlord could offer, but I ate ravenously, my ears all the while
keenly on the alert for the hum of the car which we had outstripped.
After I had eaten I went out into the semi-darkness and looked round the
quiet peaceful old village street of snug thatched cottages, the row
broken by a red brick chapel and a corrugated iron church-room.
Only one gentleman lived in the vicinity, so the landlord informed me.
His name was Mr Gordon-Wright, a London gentleman, and he lived at the
"Glen," which we had passed about half a mile before entering the
village. Gordon-Wright! And this was his hiding-place!
Twilight had deepened into night as I sat upon a rough bench outside the
inn, my ears still strained in order to catch sound of the approach of
the car.
Gibbs' theory was that they had probably stopped to dine in Plymouth,
and certainly that seemed a very feasible one.
Would they put up at the inn, I wondered? Or were they making their way
to Gordon-Wright's? Out of curiosity, and in order to kill time, I rose
and strolled along the village across the bridge and up the steep hill
on to the road down which we had descended.
In passing in the car I had no recollection of having noticed a house,
but as I now approached on foot I saw on the left a large clump of
trees, surrounding a big white house.
On nearer approach the "Glen" proved to be one of those ugly,
inartistic, early Georgian structures which a later generation had
covered with stucco, surrounded by a large but ill-kept flower-garden,
and beyond a thick spinney, all being allowed to run wild and
unattended.
The garden was shut off from the high-road by a high wall of red brick,
but the gates were iron, and through them, as I passed, I could obtain a
good view of the house, inasmuch as the drawing-room windows were open,
and the lamps beneath their white silk shades revealed that the place
was cheaply upholstered in a rather gaudy chintz. The hall door, too,
was open, and within I recognised an air of need. The hall of every
house is an index to the state of the finances of its owner.
I halted for a moment and peered through the gate. From what I saw I at
once concluded that either the house had been let furnished for the
summer or that Mr Gordon-Wright, alias Lieutenant Shacklock, was not
overburdened with surplus wealth.
As I looked, a middle-aged and most respectable, but round-shouldered
old man-servant crossed the hall, carrying a tray. He was evidently
laying the dinner table.
A moment later a shadow within the drawing-room betrayed the presence of
some one there, while to my nostrils came the fragrant smell of a very
good cigar.
A suit-case had been deposited in the hall, and the man-servant, on his
return, caught it up and disappeared with it up the red-carpeted stairs.
All this I was watching with idle curiosity, having nothing better to
do, when of a sudden the distant note of a motor-horn reached my ear,
causing me to start away from where I stood and turn back a few steps in
the direction of the village.
My heart leaped within me. Far off I could see the reflection of the
head-lights as the car came tearing through the village and up the road
at headlong pace.
Was it the blue car? Would it pass on, and leave me behind, after all?
In a few moments the white lights swept into full view, and I stepped to
the side of the road to allow them to pass, when, to my joy, the driver
began to blow his horn violently, as though to announce his approach.
Yes! They were halting at the "Glen," after all!
With loud trumpeting that echoed among the trees the car flashed past
me, and came to a sudden stop before the iron gates, but ere it did so
the gates were flung open wide by the servant, and a man came out of the
house shouting them a warm and cheery welcome.
The bright rays from the head lamps shone full upon him, dazzling him
and preventing my presence being revealed.