SUCCESS.
Cranmere Pool! The most desolate spot on Dartmoor. Here rise seven
rivers--born in the quaking morass, itself the result of the drainage of
the giant tors which shut it in on every hand. A lonely spot encircled
by the everlasting hills, without a road or cart-track--inaccessible,
isolated. In summer visited by tourists who boast of having made the
pilgrimage on the hardy little moorland ponies; in winter as solitary
and forsaken as the Great Sahara itself.
Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau from which the hills
slope upwards, and half-way up is the remains of a ruined house--the
walls of which are only a few feet high, and are level with the ground
in many places.
A strange place for a house until one notices the hummocks and
depressions in the rock-strewn heather, and then one realises that once
in far-off times this was a primitive tin mine.
The silence is intense--the hillside, save for the heather, bare and
lifeless. Suddenly a clump of heather stirs, and a man's head appears
thrust out of the hillside itself--followed by his body--as it emerges
from a hole hidden by the heather. He raises a pair of Zeiss glasses
and carefully sweeps the country--first the foot hills, then the more
distant tors. Then having satisfied himself that he is the sole human
being on that wild moorland, he throws himself into the heather--and
fills and lights a pipe.
Rupert's waiting place had been well chosen. For anyone but a born
moorman it would have been impossible. Dressed in a smart blue suit,
his hair of decent length, and a decent moustache, it would have been
difficult to recognise in him Convict 381! He lay on his back and
nervously blew smoke rings into the blue vault above him. Presently he
ceased smoking and sat up. A faint humming greeted his ears!
He rose to his feet and faced the north; his glasses swept round the
skyline east and west--then he took them down and gazed slowly round the
visible horizon. Nothing in sight, and yet the hum increased.
Now it stopped suddenly. He looked up, and there, right above him, was
a monoplane, far up in the blue heavens, circling round and descending
in great spiral swoops till he could see the figure of the pilot.
With a strangled cry of joy he ran down the steep hillside to the grassy
plain, and presently the monoplane swooped down and bounded along the
rough turf.
Rupert raced after it, and as gradually, almost imperceptibly, it
slackened speed, he seized hold of it and used his weight to help bring
it to a standstill, Crichton eventually jumping from his seat and doing
the same.
Then Jim took off his safety helmet and the two men faced one another.
Rupert held out his hand. He tried to speak, but he could not trust
himself. Jim Crichton understood; he, too, had a queer sensation of
choking in his throat.
He turned away and commenced to examine the machine, to see that it had
not been damaged in alighting--and to give Rupert a chance of recovering
himself. The latter was trembling from head to foot. He had been brave
enough when he had been hunted by armed men through the fog, and his
nerve had not deserted him when he came out from his place of
concealment at Post Bridge Hall and begged to be given a chance to fight
for his life. And all the time he had been hidden in the semi-darkness
of the cellar adjoining Jim Crichton's workroom at the Hall he had felt
confident that he would eventually obtain his freedom. But now that the
hour had come, now that he stood on the vast moorland beneath the
glorious blue sky, no longer wearing the badge of shame, to all intents
and purposes free, his nerve failed him and his courage suddenly oozed
through his feet.
He started at every sound--the call of a curlew, a distant sheep bell,
the rattle of a stone beneath his boot. Jim unstrapped a parcel from
the front seat of the monoplane and threw it on to the turf.
"Now then, Dale, you've got to be quick," he said brusquely, as if
giving orders to one of his own men. "Undo that suit case. You'll find
a uniform; take off the suit you're wearing and get into it. You mustn't
waste a moment. I may have been seen descending, but I don't think it's
likely from the height I was up."
Again Rupert tried to speak, but the words rattled incoherently in his
throat. He commenced to change his clothes in a way that would have won
the approval of a quick-change music-hall artist. When he had finished
he packed up the blue suit of clothes and Jim strapped the case on to
the monoplane again. Then he looked at Rupert critically.
"Yes, you'll do. You had better brush your moustache up a bit--so." He
gave a little laugh. "Gad, you would make a very good soldier. Let's
see you salute."
Rupert cast an anxious eye round the horizon. "You said there wasn't a
moment to lose--some one may have seen you descend--this means life or
death to me! ... and for you, the risk----"
Jim stepped forward and laid his hand on Rupert's shoulder. "Come, pull
yourself together, man. You'll want all your courage in an hour's time
when we land at Plymouth. You haven't forgotten what I've told you? ...
I started from Netheravon with my soldier servant, Jackson. Dropped him
at Chard, and he went on by rail to Exeter, where I picked him up
again--you're Jackson!"
"Yes, I remember all that," Rupert replied hastily.
"Now, when we arrive at Plymouth be careful not to speak a word. Yes or
no will be quite enough. Go straight to the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, and
refuse all invitations to the canteen or mess. You know what to do at
the hotel? Now, try that salute again, the first was rotten. It's more
important than you think. We mustn't take the slightest risk of failure
now."
Eventually Crichton was satisfied. They had some little difficulty in
starting the engine. Altogether, scarcely half an hour passed since the
monoplane alighted before it was once more in the air making great
spirals as it climbed steeply into the clouds. Rupert scanned the
moorlands surrounding the pool with his glasses. To his relief no human
being was in sight. They had not been observed.
Jim contrived to keep Cranmere Pool as the centre and avoided even
sighting Okehampton Camp, nor was Princetown visible till they sailed
swiftly over it--a mere speck thousands of feet below.
It seemed only a few moments before the gleam of water and a pall of
smoke showed Rupert that Plymouth was just ahead.
* * * * *
The monoplane began to descend in great spirals, till woods and houses
were clearly visible. Jim did not approach the town, but circled round
a large down. Now crowds of people could be seen running towards an
open green space with a great white cross on it, directly below them.
Rupert noticed that many were soldiers. More soldiers poured out of the
line of huts to the south. The engine stopped. Now the cross was right
ahead, and the ground appeared to Rupert to be rushing towards them. He
clutched the supports on each side and realised they were falling at a
frightful rate. Suddenly the engines started again--but only for a
moment. Before he knew how it happened the monoplane was rushing along
the ground with great leaps, till it stopped just beyond the canvas
cross. In a moment a cordon of soldiers formed round the monoplane.
Jim jumped from his seat and was shaking hands with a group of eager
officers.
Rupert also climbed down and was instantly surrounded by soldiers, who
plied him with questions. Before he could reply Jim pushed through them.
"Now, Jackson, don't stand gossiping there! Take my suit-case down to
the 'Duke of Cornwall' at once. Ask for the rooms I've engaged. I
shall want a bath and change immediately."
"Yes, sir." And Rupert gave his best military salute.
"Here, take that safety helmet off and put on your cap," Jim commanded,
"or you'll be mobbed outside.... Now, men, don't interfere with him, he
will be back in an hour. Just help to wheel the 'plane opposite the
polo pavilion."
Rupert, bag in hand, hurried to the gate, glad to escape further
questions from his supposed comrades.
At the gate he met a cavalcade, and had to stand aside to let it pass.
Just as he was hurrying down the road again, he heard a horse behind
him, and a voice hailed him.
"Hi! You there! Why don't you salute the General, eh? Here, sergeant,
take this man's name and regiment." And the young officer turned his
horse and galloped after the General again.
Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout, red-faced man in a
red tunic with three gold stripes on his arm.
"Name and regiment?" he snapped.
Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied
"Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps."
"What's your number?"
"Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise.
"Come on, now--don't you let me 'ave none of your ... nonsense. Out
with it!"
Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered,
after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I'll go quietly with
you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first."
"I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed,
"not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you're
for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the
General Officer Commanding the Western District--and don't you forget
it, or you'll find yourself in 'clink.' Now, fly off, and don't give us
so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."
Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure.
But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a
sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and
cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run--to run away
from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through
the traffic and escape--somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself
and be alone.
Alone in the darkness again!
Ever since his escape from prison he had lived the life of an
underground animal. Always in the darkness. And at night, when he had
dared sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness still
surrounded him and the silence and the mystery of the night.
For the best part of a year he had been shut off from human intercourse
and converse with his fellow men.
Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders with them. He was
jostled to and fro; laughter echoed in his ears. The noise of the
traffic threatened to deafen him.
He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he knew he would have
bolted--like a thief.
Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned and he found he was not
molested, fear left him and was replaced by a tremendous excitement. He
began to feel like a child who has run away from home, or a schoolboy
who has escaped the vigilance of his masters. The noise of the streets
began to have a meaning for him: colour and movement. The motors and
tram-cars and the splendid shops.
And, overhead, the great blue sky. He was free, really a free man
again.
At liberty! He mouthed the word lovingly. And he stood still on the
pavement and gaped at the men and women who passed to and fro. How
easily they took their liberty; how unconscious they seemed of it. They
had never known what it was to be imprisoned. They had never known what
it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a narrow cell in the
everlasting twilight, without even a window through which one might gaze
and be reminded that God's in His heaven, all's well with the world.
Again he laughed. At that moment a policeman passed him and turning his
head looked at him. Rupert was standing just outside a shop. Hardly
knowing what he was doing he bolted into it. The next moment he cursed
himself for a fool and a coward. A huge glass mirror showed him his
reflection. He stared at it fascinated. He looked no more like a
convict than he looked like the old Rupert Dale he had once known.
An assistant's voice behind the counter asking him what he wanted
brought him back to the needs of the moment. By good fortune the shop
was a tobacconist's--and Rupert knew he did want something very badly.
A smoke. He bought a four-penny cigar, and the chink of money gave him
another strange thrill. He spent an unconscionable time in lighting it,
but when he ventured into the street again he found to his relief the
policeman had gone.
And so eventually he reached the hotel safely and sat down at the open
window of the private sitting-room reserved for Lieutenant James
Crichton.
And there an hour or two later Jim found him.
The two men shook hands silently. It was difficult to find words. They
had both gone through big ordeals. They had both been fighting against
pretty stiff odds. Victory seemed assured.
But they were not out of danger yet.
Jim had a hot bath and changed, then he told Rupert to do the same.
"You will have to get into mufti," he explained to him. "I've had a
kit-bag sent here, and it contains everything you'll want for your
journey. You remember all I've told you? Well, I've had to change our
plans slightly. You sail to-night on a small boat, about a thousand
tons, that's going East. I've booked you as a coffee planter--thanks to
working in the fields at Princetown you've got a good tan on your face.
Your name is John Cotton--which fits in with the initials on my bag. I
thought it out as I was filling my 'baccy pouch----" He laughed. "For
heaven's sake, remember--_John Cotton_! You'll find a book amongst your
kit dealing with coffee planting. You'd better study it in case you're
tackled on the subject. The captain of the ship's a pal of mine. He's
got a box for the theatre to-night, and is bringing a friend. We're
going to join him there, and after the show, in the middle of supper,
we're all to walk down to the Barbican Steps, where the captain's dinghy
will be waiting.... Captain Sparkes is a decent chap, and a sportsman.
He knows you're under a cloud, that's all he knows. I would have told
him the truth, but I couldn't, for his sake; for if he knew and anything
went wrong he would get into no end of a mess. He won't question you.
And once you're outside Plymouth Sound you'll know you're safe."
Rupert nodded his head. He could not thank Crichton. Mere words would
not convey what he felt.
Perhaps Jim knew what was passing in his mind, for he laid his hand on
his shoulder a moment, giving it a friendly grip.
"That's all right," he said steadily. "Now, from this moment I want you
to blot out the past. You told your sister you were innocent. I didn't
believe it at first. I believe it now."
Rupert raised his head and looked straight into Jim's face. "Thank God
for that."
"Forget everything," Jim continued. "Only remember John Cotton, the
coffee planter, en route for Singapore."
He took out a note-book from his pocket and handed Rupert a wad of
notes. "There's a hundred pounds there, half in English, half in dollar
notes. When the radium mine booms you'll have more money than you know
what to do with. Now then, just before you close the door on the past
and lock it, is there anything I can do for you in England?"
Rupert walked round to the window and gazed out. Down below the bustle
and business of life; the buying and selling, the loving and hating of
the streets. Beyond, the shimmer of the blue sea, which for him meant
safety. And, above, the dome of the blue sky, which for him meant
liberty!
He wondered when he would grow accustomed to it.
"You will take care of Marjorie. Whatever happens, whether you marry
her or not, don't let Despard get hold of her."
"You need have no fear on that score, old man."
There was a short silence. Rupert was still standing with his back to
Jim, staring out of the window.
"There's a letter I'd like to write--to some one; some one very dear to
me. I don't know where she is now. But I daresay you could find her.
Perhaps you can guess----"
"You mean Miss Strode?"
Rupert nodded. He gave Jim her address and the name of the theatre
where she had last played. "I want her to know that I'm well and
safe--and--happy. Don't forget to emphasize the fact that I'm
happy--because, perhaps it would be safer not to write--if you would see
her and give her the message instead."
"I'll see her and give her your message. You mustn't write."
Again there was a short silence. Rupert took out the bundle of notes
Jim had given him and fingered them thoughtfully. "I shan't want all
this money. Ruby may be out of an engagement. I wish you would find a
way of sending her half the amount you've given me."
"You stick to them. I'll see that she wants for nothing. That is the
first thing I'll do when I get back. I daren't tell her even that
you've escaped out of England, though of course, she'll guess. But I'll
give her your message. Is that all?"
"I think that's all," Rupert replied. He found it very difficult to
keep his voice under control. "Tell her--tell her I love her--and am
grateful, always grateful."
Jim started. He made a movement towards Rupert, his lips framing a
question. He checked it, and, turning away, rang the bell.
"And now for dinner and then the theatre. You had better go into the
other room, Cotton, while I give my orders to the waiter, in case he saw
you coming in with my bag--he might wonder what sort of game I was
playing with my servant."
Rupert nodded and crossed the room. "I see you've got your name all
right." Jim smiled.
As soon as dinner was ordered the two men strolled down to the lounge,
and then Rupert remembered to tell Jim the incident of the General he
had forgotten to salute, and the scene he had had with the sergeant.
Crichton laughed. "By jove, you might have got poor Jackson into a nice
mess! But as you were carrying my bag and men are not supposed to
salute when they're carrying things, I'll make it all right for you."
At eight o'clock they made their way to the theatre and found Captain
Sparkes and his friend already occupying one of the boxes.
Four hours later they were walking beneath the starlit sky towards the
Barbican. The captain was in a rare good humour with himself. They
found the dinghy waiting for them at the appointed place. Sparkes and
his passenger tumbled in unquestioned. The final farewells were
shouted, the oars struck the water. The little boat pulled out and was
soon lost to view.
Jim Crichton gave a slight sigh of relief, and, turning on his heel,
walked back to the hotel. At the bureau he asked for a telegraph form,
and, writing out a message, handed it to the porter with instructions
that it should be sent off the first thing in the morning.
It contained three words. "Flight quite successful," and was addressed
to "Marjorie Dale, Blackthorn Farm, Post Bridge."
Jim turned in at once. For the first time he realised that he was
thoroughly exhausted. But sleep did not come. A dreadful fear seized
him lest he had written his message a little previously. Captain
Sparkes' boat was not due to sail until daybreak. Rupert would not be
really safe until she was out of the Channel.
Long before sunrise Jim Crichton was standing at his bedroom window
gazing with anxious eyes over Plymouth Sound.
A black speck on the blue horizon; a thin line of slowly drifting smoke!
His glasses told him that the boat had sailed, and that Rupert Dale was
safe.