THE ABDUCTION OF MARJORIE
It was a week after the burglary at Highlawn that a perfectly happy man
went whistling to his work. He walked with a brisk step, carrying his
lunch in a gaily coloured handkerchief, with a tin can full of tea for
his breakfast. George Mansingham raised his eyes to the sky, which was
just turning gray, in thankfulness at his freedom.
Work had been found for him through the medium of Hilary George, at a
little farm outside the town. He and his wife had been installed in a
tiny cottage on Sir Ralph’s estate. To give Sir Ralph his due, he had
freely admitted the injustice of the sentence he had passed; if not to
the man, at least to himself, which was something; and it needed little
pleading on the part of Hilary George, who had taken an interest in the
case, to induce him to let his untenanted cottage to the man he had
wronged.
Early as the hour was, he found his employer and his son up and about.
There is much work to be done before the sun comes up over the edge of
the world. There are horses to be fed and groomed, sheep and cattle
that require attention, cows to be milked, and milk to be carried.
The sky grew lighter, the sun came up, it seemed to him with a rush,
but he was too busy to notice the progress of the time. At half-past
eight nature called him to breakfast. He sat down to his frugal meal,
first placing two nose-bags on the heads of the horses, for he was now
engaged in ploughing the ten-acre lot Farmer Wensell farmed. His meal
quickly disposed of, he pulled a bulky book from the inside of his
jacket pocket and began to read. He had a passion for self-education,
and at the moment Merejkowski’s _Forerunner_, which Marjorie had lent
him, had a special significance, not only for him, but for the whole of
England. He was so intent upon the pages of this wonderful romance that
he did not notice the girl who was crossing the field with such free
strides.
He heard his name called and looked up; then he sprang to his feet, hat
in hand.
“You’re very absorbed, Mansingham,” smiled Marjorie.
“Yes, miss,” said the other; “it’s a wonderful book, and he’s a
wonderful man. I’m not surprised all the world’s talking about him just
now.”
“It’s not because of his genius that they are speaking of him,” said
the girl gravely.
She carried a paper under her arm; in fact, she had been down to
Burboro’ Station to get the journal.
“It’s a terrible business, miss,” said the man. He put the book down.
“It doesn’t seem possible, in a civilized age, and in a country like
England. Is there any fresh news this morning, miss?”
She nodded gravely.
“The Red Hand have addressed the premier,” she said, “and they have
demanded ten million pounds, an act of indemnity passed by the House of
Commons, and freedom to leave the country.”
The man looked incredulous.
“Why, they’ll never get that, will they, miss?” he asked. “It’s against
all reason, a demand like that! Suppose it’s not true, suppose they
haven’t discovered this plague----”
She shook her head.
“There’s no doubt about it, Mansingham,” she said. “Mr. Gallinford
knows it to be true. He has been investigating, looking up old
documents relating to the plague of 1500. These men have it in their
power to decimate the whole of England.”
The subject they were discussing filled the minds of men throughout
Great Britain that day; nay, throughout Europe. Wherever civilized
people forgathered, the cable and the telegraph had carried the news
of the threat which overhung the country. It was the final demand of
the Red Hand, a demand which at first had been pooh-poohed, and had
been discussed by government officials as a problem which called for
immediate solution.
The Red Hand had acted swiftly. Three days after the locket had
disappeared from Burboro’ a startling proclamation of the Red Hand,
printed in blood-red characters, had covered the hoardings and the
walls of London. Then it was for the first time that England woke to
a realization of the terrible danger which threatened her. It was
incomprehensible, unbelievable. It was almost fantastic. Men who read
it smiled helplessly as though they were reading something which was
beyond their understanding. And yet the proclamation was clear enough.
It ran:
TO THE PEOPLE OF LONDON.
We, the Directors of the Red Hand, demand of the English Government--
(_a_) The sum of Ten Million Pounds.
(_b_) An act of indemnity releasing every member of the Fraternity from
all and every penalty to which he may be liable as a result of his past
actions.
(_c_) A safe conduct to each and every member of the Red Hand, and
facilities, if so required, for leaving the country.
In the event of the Government’s refusing, after ten days’ grace,
we, the Directors of the Red Hand, will spread in London the Plague
which was known as the Fourth Plague, and which destroyed six hundred
thousand people in the year 1500. The bacillus of that plague is in our
possession and has been synthetically prepared and tested.
Citizens! Bring pressure on your Government to accede to our demands,
and save us the necessity of inflicting this terrible disease upon you!
It bore no signature or seal. It was absurd, of course. Evening papers,
necessarily hurried and having little time to analyze its true meaning,
made fun of it. But a different note appeared in the comments of the
morning papers. Every known scientist and doctor of note who was
reachable had been interviewed, and they one and all agreed that there
was more than an idle threat in the pronouncement.
The papers called it variously, “The Terror,” “The Threat of the Red
Hand,” “Blackmailing London,” and their columns were filled with every
available piece of data concerning the terrible scourge which had swept
through Italy and Ireland in the year of desolation.
“It’s a terrible business,” said Mansingham again. “I am afraid there
is something in it.”
The girl nodded.
With a courtesy which is not usually found in men of his class, he
accompanied her to the end of the field and assisted her across the
rough stile leading on to the road. She had made a detour from the
little station to speak to Mansingham. She was interested in him, and
it was a pact between the barrister and herself that she should keep,
as he put it, a friendly eye upon his protégé.
It was a glorious morning; the world was flooded with the lemon
sunlight of early spring. The trees were bright with vivid green,
and primroses and wild violets flowered profusely by the hedgerows.
She shook away the gloom and depression to which the thought of this
terrible menace had subjected her, and stepped out briskly, humming a
little tune.
Half-way across the field, Mansingham, retracing his steps, picked up
one of the papers she had been carrying, and hurried after her.
She had a twenty minutes’ walk before she reached Highlawn, which stood
some quarter of a mile from the town’s limits, but she was of an age,
and it was such a morning, when one’s feet seem to move without effort,
and song comes unbidden to the lips.
She heard the whirl of a motor car behind her and moved closer to the
hedge to allow it to pass. Unconsciously she turned to see who was the
occupant. At that moment the car jarred itself to a standstill at her
side. A young man, immaculately dressed, sprang out.
“Count Festini!” she cried in amazement.
“Count Festini,” he repeated, with his most charming smile. “I wanted
to see you. Won’t you get in? I am going up to the house,” he said.
She hesitated. She would much rather have walked that morning. But it
would have been an act of rudeness to refuse his offer of a lift, and
besides, it occurred to her that she was already overdue for breakfast,
and Sir Ralph’s temper of late had not been of the best.
She stepped into the car, and at that moment Mansingham, a little out
of breath, broke through the hedge behind it.
“What a curious idea,” Marjorie said, as Festini took his place beside
her.
“What is a curious idea?” he asked.
“A closed car on a day like this,” she said. “Why, I thought you
Italians loved the sun.”
“We love the sun,” he said, “untempered by such winds as you seem to
produce exclusively in England.”
He stepped forward and pulled down a red blind which hid the chauffeur
and the road ahead from view. She watched him without understanding the
necessity for his act. Then with a quick move he pulled the blinds down
on each side of the car. It was now moving forward at a great pace. At
this rate, she felt, they must be very near indeed to Highlawn. They
had, in fact, passed the house, as the embarrassed Mansingham, clinging
to the back of the car and waiting for it to slow up so that he could
restore the girl’s paper, saw to his bewilderment.
“Why do you do that?” the girl asked coldly. “If you please, Count
Festini, let those blinds up.”
“In a little while,” he said.
“I insist,” she stamped her foot. “You have no right to do such a
thing.”
She was hot and angry in a moment as the full realization of his
offense came to her.
“In a moment,” he repeated; “for the present we will have the blinds
down, if you don’t mind.”
She stared at him in amazement.
“Are you mad?” she asked angrily.
“You look very pretty when you’re angry,” he smiled.
The insolent assurance in his tone made her feel a sudden giddiness.
They must have passed Highlawn by now.
“Stop the car,” she demanded.
“The car will stop later,” he said; “in the meantime”--he caught her
hand as she attempted to release the blind--“in the meantime,” he
repeated, holding her wrist tightly, “you will be pleased to consider
yourself my prisoner.”
“Your prisoner!” exclaimed the affrighted girl. Her face had gone very
white.
“My prisoner,” said Festini pleasantly. “I am particularly desirous of
holding you to ransom. Don’t you realize”--his eyes were blazing with
excitement--“don’t you realize,” he cried, “what you are to me? I do.
In these last few days,” he went on, speaking rapidly, “I have seen all
the wealth that any man could desire. And it is nothing to me. Do you
know why? Because there is one thing in the world that I want more than
anything, and you are that thing.”
Both his hands were holding her now. She could not move. She was as
much fascinated by his deadly earnestness as paralyzed by the grip on
her arms.
“I desire you,” he said. His voice dropped until it thrilled. “You,
more than anything in the world--Marjorie. You are unattainable one
way; I must secure you in another.”
The girl shrank back into a corner of the car, watching the man,
fascinated. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Festini watched
her, his eyes glowing with the fire of his passion. His hot hand was
closed over hers almost convulsively.
“Do you know what I’m doing?” he said, speaking rapidly. “Do you know
what I’m risking for you? Can’t you realize that I am imparting a new
danger to myself and to my organization by this act? But I want you; I
want you more than anything in the world,” he said passionately.
She found her voice.
“You are mad,” she said; “you are wickedly mad.”
He nodded.
“What you say is true,” he answered moodily, “yet in my madness I am
obeying the same laws which govern humanity. Something here”--he struck
his breast--“tells me that you are the one woman for me. That is an
instinct which I obey. Is it madness? Then we are all mad; all animated
creation is mad.”
The fierce joy of possession overcame him; she struggled and screamed,
but the whir of the engine drowned her voice. In a moment she was in
his arms, held tightly to him, his hot lips against her cheeks. He must
have caught a glimpse of the loathing and horror in her face, for of a
sudden he released her, and she shrank back, pale and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said huskily, “you--you say I am mad--you make me mad.”
His moods changed as swiftly as the April sky. Now he was pleading; all
the arguments he could muster he advanced. He was almost cheerful, he
swore he would release her, reached out his hand to signal the driver,
and repented his generosity.
Then he spoke quickly and savagely of the fate which would be hers if
she resisted him. It was the memory of that tall, handsome lover of
hers that roused him to this fury. He was as exhausted as she when the
car turned from the main road, as she judged by the jolting of the
wheels. After ten minutes’ run, it slowed down and finally stopped.
He jumped up, opened the carriage door and sprang out, then turned to
assist her. A cold, sweet wind greeted her, a wind charged with the
scent of brine. She stood upon a rolling down; within a hundred yards
the sea stretched grayly to the horizon. There was no house in sight
save one small cottage. About the cottage stood two or three men. She
uttered a cry of thankfulness and started off toward them, when a laugh
from Festini stopped her.
“I’ll introduce you myself,” he said sarcastically.
She turned to run toward the sea, but in two strides he was up to her
and had caught her by the arm. Then a huge hand gripped his neck, with
a quick jerk he was spun round. His eyes blazing with anger, he turned
upon his assailant. George Mansingham, tall and broad, grimed with the
dust of the road, for he had maintained an uncomfortable position
hanging on to the back of the car for two hours, met the vicious charge
of Festini with one long, swinging blow, and the Italian went down to
the ground stunned.
The girl was dazed by the suddenness of the rescue, until Mansingham
aroused her to action.
“This way, miss!” he said.
He caught her unceremoniously round the waist, swung her up as if she
were a child, and leaped across a ditch which drained this section of
the downs.
“Run!” he whispered. He too had seen the men and guessed they were in
the confederacy. The girl gathered up all her reserve of strength and
ran like the wind, Mansingham loping easily at her side.
The wind carried the voices of their pursuers. One staccato shot rang
out, a bullet whistled past them, then someone in authority must have
given the order to stop firing. And indeed it was more dangerous for
the men than for the fugitives.
There was a coast-guard station half a mile along the cliff road,
and, although neither the girl nor Mansingham realized the fact, they
instinctively felt that the coast line offered the best means of
escape. Then suddenly Marjorie tripped and fell. Mansingham stopped
in his stride and turned to lift her. As he raised her to her feet he
uttered an exclamation of despair.
Facing him were two men, indubitably Italians, and their revolvers
covered him. He had come against the Red Hand outpost.
It was all over in ten minutes. The pursuers came up, the girl was
snatched from his protecting arms. He fought well; man after man fell
before his huge fists. Then a knife, deftly thrown, struck him by the
haft full between the eyes and he went down like a log.
Festini, breathless, his face marred by an ugly redness which was fast
developing into a bruise, directed operations.
“If you make a sound,” he said, “or attempt to attract the attention of
any person you see, you will have that person’s death on your hands,
and probably your own.”
He spoke curtly, impersonally, as though she herself were Mansingham.
“Do not hurt him,” she gasped. She referred to the prostrate form of
the farm labourer, now stirring to life. Festini made no answer. He was
of a race which did not readily forgive a blow.
“Take her away,” he said.
He remained behind with his two familiars.
“I think we will cut his throat, signor,” said Il Bue, “and that will
be an end to him.”
“And an end to us,” said Festini; “this coast is patrolled, the man
will be found, and the whole coast line searched.”
He walked a dozen paces to the edge of the cliff and looked down. There
was a sheer fall here of two hundred feet, and the tide was in.
“There is twenty feet of water here,” he said significantly.
They carried the reviving man by the head and feet to the edge of the
cliff. They swung him twice and then released their hold, his arms and
legs outstretched like a starfish. Round and round he twirled in that
brief space of time, Festini and the others watching. Then the water
splashed whitely and the dark figure disappeared.
They waited a little while, there was no reappearance, and Festini and
his lieutenant retraced their footsteps to the cottage, the third man
following.