Another voice answered from near by and Dunn scrambled hurriedly to his
feet.
He had but a moment in which to decide what to do, for these new
arrivals were coming at a run and would be upon him almost instantly if
he stayed where he was.
That they were friends of the man he had just overthrown and whose huge
bulk lay motionless in the darkness at his feet, seemed plain, and it
also seemed plain to him that the moment was not an opportune one for
offering explanations.
Swiftly he decided to slip away into the darkness. What had happened
might be cleared up later when he knew more and was more sure of his
ground; at present he must think first, he told himself, of the success
of his mission.
Physically, he was greatly exhausted and his gait was not so steady nor
his progress so silent and skillful as it had been before, as now he
hurried away from the scene of the combat.
But the two new-comers made no attempt to pursue him and indeed did not
seem to give his possible presence in the vicinity even a thought, as
with many muttered exclamations of dismay and anger, they stooped over
the body of his prostrate enemy.
It was evident they recognized him at once, and that he was the “Mr.
John” whose name they had called, for so they spoke of him to each other
as they busied themselves about him.
“I expect I've been a fool again,” Dunn thought to himself ruefully, as
from a little distance, well-sheltered in the darkness, he crouched upon
the ground and listened and watched. “I may have ruined everything. Any
one but a fool would have asked him what he meant when he hit out like
that instead of flying into a rage and hitting back the way I did. Most
likely it was some mistake when he said he knew who I was and what I
wanted--at least if it wasn't--I hope I haven't killed him, anyhow.”
Secure in the protection the dark night afforded him, he remained
sufficiently near at hand to be able to assure himself soon that his
overthrown adversary was certainly not killed, for now he began to
express himself somewhat emphatically concerning the manner in which the
two new-comers were ministering to him.
Presently he got to his feet and, with one of them supporting him on
each side, began to limp away, and Dunn followed them, though cautiously
and at a distance, for he was still greatly exhausted and in neither the
mood nor the condition for running unnecessary risks.
The big man, Mr. John, as the others called him, seemed little inclined
for speech, but the others talked a good deal, subsiding sometimes when
he told them gruffly to be quiet but invariably soon beginning again
their expressions of sympathy and vows of vengeance against his unknown
assailant.
“How many of them do you think there were, Mr. John, sir?” one asked
presently. “I'll lay you marked a fair sight of the villains.”
“There was only one man,” Mr. John answered briefly.
“Only one?” the other repeated in great surprise. “For the Lord's sake,
Mr. John--only one? Why, there ain't any one man between here and Lunnon
town could stand up to you, sir, in a fair tussle.”
“Well, he did,” Mr. John answered. “He had the advantage, he took me by
surprise, but I never felt such a grip in my life.”
“Lor', now, think of that,” said the other in tones in which surprise
seemed mingled with a certain incredulity. “It don't seem possible, but
for sure, then, he don't come from these here parts, that I'll stand
to.”
“I knew that much before,” retorted Mr. John. “I said all the time
they were outsiders, a London gang very likely. You'll have to get Dr.
Rawson, Bates. I don't know what's up, but I've a beast of a pain in my
side. I can hardly breathe.”
Bates murmured respectful sympathy as they came out of the shelter
of the trees, and crossing some open ground, reached a road along the
further side of which ran a high brick wall.
In this, nearly opposite the spot where they emerged on the road, was a
small door which one of the men opened and through which they passed and
locked it behind them, leaving Dunn without.
He hesitated for a moment, half-minded to scale the wall and continue on
the other side of it to follow them.
Calculating the direction in which the village of Ramsdon must lie, he
turned that way and had gone only a short distance when he was overtaken
by a pedestrian with whom he began conversation by asking for a light
for his pipe.
The man seemed inclined to be conversational, and after a few casual
remarks, Dunn made an observation on the length of the wall they were
passing and to the end of which they had just come.
“Must be a goodish-sized place in there,” he said. “Whose is it?”
“Oh, that there's Ramsdon Place,” the other answered. “Mr. John Clive
lives there now his father's dead.”
Dunn stood still in the middle of the road.
“Who? What?” he stammered. “Who--who did you say?”
“Mr. John Clive,” the other repeated. “Why--what's wrong about that?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Dunn answered, but his voice shook a little with
what seemed almost fear, and behind the darkness of the friendly night
his face had become very pale. “Clive--John Clive, you say? Oh, that's
impossible.”
“Needn't believe it if you don't want to,” grumbled the other. “Only
what do you want asking questions for if you thinks folks tells lies
when they answers them?”
“I didn't mean that, of course not,” exclaimed Dunn hurriedly, by no
means anxious to offend the other. “I'm very sorry, I only meant it was
impossible it should be the same Mr. John Clive I knew once, though I
think he came from about here somewhere. A little, middle-aged man, I
mean, quite bald and wears glasses?”
“Oh, that ain't this 'un,” answered the other, his good humour quite
restored. “This is a young man and tremendous big. I ain't so small
myself, but he tops me by a head and shoulders and so he does most
hereabouts. Strong, too, with it, there ain't so many would care to
stand up against him, I can tell you. Why, they do say he caught two
poachers in the wood there last month and brought 'em out one under each
arm like a pair of squealing babes.”
“Did he, though?” said Dunn. “Take some doing, that, and I daresay the
rest of the gang will try to get even with him for it.”
“Well, they do say as there's been threats,” the other agreed. “But what
I says is as Mr. John can look after hisself all right. There was a tale
as a man had been dodging after him at night, but all he said when they
told him, was as if he caught any one after him he would thrash them
within an inch of their lives.”
“Serve them right, too,” exclaimed Dunn warmly.
Evidently this explained, in part at least, what had recently happened.
Mr. Clive, finding himself being followed, had supposed it was one of
his poaching enemies and had at once attempted to carry out his threat
he had made.
Dunn told himself, at any rate, the error would have the result of
turning all suspicion away from him, and yet he still seemed very
disturbed and ill at ease.
“Has Mr. Clive been here long?” he asked.
“It must be four or five years since his father bought the place,”
answered his new acquaintance. “Then, when the old man was killed a year
ago, Mr. John inherited everything.”
“Old Mr. Clive was killed, was he?” asked Dunn, and his voice sounded
very strange in the darkness. “How was that?”
“Accident to his motor-car,” the other replied. “I don't hold with them
things myself--give me a good horse, I say. People didn't like the old
man much, and some say Mr. John's too fond of taking the high hand. But
don't cross him and he won't cross you, that's his motto and there's
worse.”
Dunn agreed and asked one or two more questions about the details of the
accident to old Mr. Clive, in which he seemed very interested.
But he did not get much more information about that concerning which his
new friend evidently knew very little. However, he gave Dunn a few more
facts concerning Mr. John Clive, as that he was unmarried, was said to
be very wealthy, and had the reputation of being something of a ladies'
man.
A little further on they parted, and Dunn took a side road which he
calculated should lead him back to Bittermeads.
“It may be pure coincidence,” he mused as he walked slowly in a very
troubled and doubtful mood. “But if so, it's a very queer one, and if
it isn't, it seems to me Mr. John Clive might as well put his head in
a lion's jaws as pay visits at Bittermeads. But of course he can't have
the least suspicion of the truth--if it is the truth. If I hadn't lost
my temper like a fool when he whacked out at me like that I might have
been able to warn him, or find out something useful perhaps. And his
father killed recently in an accident--is that a coincidence, too, I
wonder?”
He passed his hand across his forehead on which a light sweat stood,
though he was not a man easily affected, for he had seen and endured
many things.
His mind was very full of strange and troubled thoughts as at last he
came back to Bittermeads, where, leaning with his elbows on the garden
gate, he stood for a long time, watching the dark and silent house and
thinking of that scene of which he had been a spectator when John Clive
and the girl had stood together on the veranda in the light of the gas
from the hall and had bidden each other good night.
“It seems,” he mused, “as though the last that was seen of poor Charley
must have been just like that. It was just such a dark night as this
when Simpson saw him. He was standing on that veranda when Simpson
recognized him by the light of the gas behind, and a girl was bidding
him good night--a very pretty girl, too, Simpson said.”
Silent and immobile he stood there a long time, not so much now as one
who watched, but rather as if deep in thought, for his head was bent and
supported on his hands and his eyes were fixed on the ground.
“As for this John Clive,” he muttered presently, rousing himself. “I
suppose that must be a coincidence, but it's queer, and queer the father
should have died--like that.”
He broke off, shuddering slightly, as though at thoughts too awful to be
endured, and pushing open the gate, he walked slowly up the gravel path
towards the house, round which he began to walk, going very slowly
and cautiously and often pausing as if he wished to make as close
examination of the place as the darkness would permit.
More by habit than because he thought there was any need of it, he moved
always with that extreme and wonderful dexterity of quietness he could
assume at will, and as he turned the corner of the building and came
behind it, his quick ear, trained by many an emergency to pick out the
least unusual sound, caught a faint, continued scratching noise, so
faint and low it might well have passed unnoticed.
All at once he understood and realized that some one quite close at
hand was stealthily cutting out the glass from one of the panes of a
ground-floor window.