SOME STAGE EFFECTS
Fenley himself dropped almost simultaneously with the rifle, landing
with both feet on Furneaux's back, and thus completing the little
man's discomfiture. By that time the two policemen were nearly upon
him, but he was lithe and fierce as a cobra, and had seized the rifle
again before they could close with him. Jabbing the nearer adversary
with the muzzle, he smashed a lamp and sent its owner sprawling
backward. Then, swinging the weapon, he aimed a murderous blow at the
second constable.
The man contrived to avoid it to a certain extent, but it glanced off
his left arm and caught the side of his head; and he, too, measured
his length. All three, detective and police, were on their feet
promptly, for none was seriously injured; but Furneaux was dazed and
had to grope for the torch, and the second constable's lamp had gone
out owing to a rush of oil from the cistern. Thus, during some
precious seconds, they were in total darkness.
Meanwhile Fenley had escaped. Luck, after deserting him, had come to
his rescue in the nick of time. He had blundered into the path, and
managed to keep to it, and the somewhat strong language in which
Furneaux expressed his feelings anent the Hertfordshire Constabulary,
and the no less lurid comments of two angry members of the force,
helped to conceal the sounds which would otherwise have indicated the
direction taken by the fugitive.
At last, having found the torch, Furneaux collected his scattered
wits.
"Now don't be scared and run away, you two," he said sarcastically,
producing an automatic pistol. "I'm only going to tell Mr. Winter that
we've bungled the job."
He fired twice in the air, and two vivid spurts of flame rose high
among the branches of the chestnut; but the loud reports of the
shooting were as nothing compared with the din that followed. Every
rook within a mile flew from its eyrie and cawed strenuously.
Pheasants clucked and clattered in all directions, owls hooted, and
dogs barked in the kennels, in the stable yard, and in nearly every
house of the two neighboring villages.
"I don't see what good that'll do, sir," was the rueful comment of the
policeman who had, in his own phrase, "collected a thick ear," and was
now feeling the spot tenderly. "He hasn't shinned up the tree again;
that's a positive certainty."
"I should have thought that a really clever fellow like you would
guess that I wanted to raise a row," said Furneaux. "Have you breath
enough left to blow your whistles?"
"But, sir, your orders were----"
"Blow, and be damned to you. Don't I know the fault is mine! Blow, and
crack your cheeks! Blow wild peals, my Roberts, else we are copped
coppers!"
The mild radiance of the torch showed that the detective's face was
white with fury and his eyes gleaming red. To think that a dangling
rope's end should have spoiled his finest capture, undone a flawless
piece of imaginative reasoning which his own full record had never
before equaled! It was humiliating, maddening. No wonder the policemen
thought him crazy!
But they whistled with a will. Winter heard them, and was stirred to
strange activities. Robert Fenley, recovering from an ague and
sickness, heard and marveled at the pandemonium which had broken loose
in the park. The household at The Towers was aroused, heads were
craned out of windows, women screamed, and men dressed hastily.
Keepers, estate hands, and stablemen tumbled into their garments and
hurried out, armed with guns and cudgels. An unhappy woman, tossing in
the fitful dreams of drug-induced sleep, was awakened by the pistol
shots and terrified by the noise of slamming doors and hurrying feet.
She struggled out of bed and screamed for an attendant, but none came.
She pressed an electric bell, which rang continuously in the night
watchman's room; but he had run to the front of the house and was
unlocking the front door, where a squad of willing men soon awaited
Winter's instructions. For the Superintendent, after rushing to the
telephone, had shouted an order to MacBain before he made off in the
direction of the Quarry Wood.
The one tocsin which exercises a dread significance in a peaceful and
law-abiding English community at the present day struck a new and
awful note in Hilton Fenley's brain. Fool that he was, why had he
fought? Why was he flying? Had he brazened it out, the police would
not have dared arrest him. His brain was as acute as the best of
theirs. He could have evolved a theory of the crime as subtle as any
detective's, and who so keen-witted as a son eager to avenge a
father's murder? But he had thrown away a gambler's chance by a moment
of frenzied struggle. He was doomed now. No plausible explanation
would serve his need. He was hunted. The pack was after him. The fox
had broken cover, and the hounds were in full cry.
Whither should he go? He knew not. Still clutching the empty gun--for
which he had not even one cartridge in his pockets--he made hopelessly
for the open park. Already some glimmer of light showed that he was
winning free of these accursed trees, which had stretched forth a
thousand hands to tear his flesh and trip his uncertain feet. That
way, at least, lay the world. In the wood he might have circled
blindly until captured.
Now a drawback of such roaring maelstroms of alarm and uncertainty is
their knack of submerging earlier and less dramatic passages in the
lives of those whom Fate drags into their sweeping currents. Lest,
therefore, the strangely contrived meeting between Sylvia and her
knight errant should be neglected by the chronicler, it is well to
return to those two young people at the moment when Sylvia was
declaring her unimpaired power of standing without support.
Trenholme was disposed to take everything for the best in a magic
world. "Whatever is, is right" is a doctrine which appeals to the
artistic temperament, inasmuch as it blends fatalism and the action of
Providence in proportions so admirably adjusted that no philosopher
yet born has succeeded in reducing them to a formula. But Eve did not
bite the apple in that spirit. It was forbidden: she wanted to know
why. Sylvia's first thought was to discover a reasonable reason for
Trenholme's presence. Of course, there was one that jumped to the eye,
but it was too absurd to suppose that he had come to the tryst in
obedience to the foolish vagaries which accounted for her own
actions. She blushed to the nape of her neck at the conceit, which
called for instant and severe repression, and her voice reflected the
passing mood.
"I don't wish to underrate the great service you have rendered me,"
she said coldly, "and I shall always be your debtor for it; but I can
not help asking how you came to be standing under the cedars at this
hour of the night?"
"I wonder," he said.
She wriggled her shoulder slightly, as a polite intimation that his
hand need not rest there any longer, but he seemed to misinterpret the
movement, and drew her an inch or so nearer, whereupon the wriggling
ceased.
"But that is no answer at all," she murmured, aware of a species of
fear of this big, masterful man: a fear rather fascinating in its
tremors, like a novice's cringing to the vibration of electricity in a
mildly pleasant form; a fear as opposed to her loathing of Robert
Fenley as the song of a thrush to the purr of a tiger.
"I can tell you, in a disconnected sort of way," he said, evidently
trying to focus his thoughts on a problem set by the gods, and which,
in consequence, was incapable of logical solution by a mere mortal.
"It was a fine night. I felt restless. The four walls of a room were
prison-like. I strolled out. I was thinking of you. I am here."
She trembled a little. Blushing even more deeply than before, she
fancied he must be able to feel her skin hot through silk and linen.
For all that, she contrived to laugh.
"It sounds convincing, but there is something missing in the
argument," she said.
"Most likely," he admitted. "A woman analyzes emotion far more
intimately than a man. Perhaps, if you were to tell me why _you_ were
drawn to cross the park at midnight, you might supply a clue to my own
moon madness."
"But there isn't any moon, and I think I ought to be returning to the
house."
He knew quite well that she had evaded his question, and, so readily
does the heart respond to the whisperings of hope, he was aware of a
sudden tumult in that which doctors call the cardiac region. She, too,
had come forth to tell her longings to the stars! That thrice blessed
picture had drawn them together by a force as unseen and irresistible
as the law of gravitation! Then he became aware of a dreadful qualm.
Had he any right to place on her slim shoulders the weight of an
avowal from which he had flinched? He dropped that protecting hand as
if it had been struck sharply.
"I have annoyed you by my stupid word-fencing," he said contritely.
"No, indeed," she said, and, reveling in a new sense of power, her
tone grew very gentle. "Why should we seek far-fetched theories for so
simple a thing as a stroll out of doors on a night like this? I am not
surprised that you, at any rate, should wish to visit the place where
that delightful picture sprang into being. It was my exceeding good
fortune that you happened to be close at hand when I needed help. I
must explain that----"
"My explanation comes first," he broke in. "I saw you crossing the
park. A second time in the course of one day I had to decide whether
to remain hidden or make a bolt for it. Again I determined to stand
fast; for had you seen and heard a man vanishing among the trees you
would certainly have been alarmed, not only because of the hour but
owing to today's extraordinary events. Moreover, I felt sure you were
coming to the lake, and I did not wish to stop you. That was a bit of
pure selfishness on my part. I wanted you to come. If ever a man was
vouchsafed the realization of an unspoken prayer, I am that man
tonight."
Trenholme had never before made love to any woman, but lack of
experience did not seem to trouble him greatly. Sylvia, however,
though very much alive to that element in his words, bethought herself
of something else which they implied.
"Then you heard what my cousin Robert said?" she commented.
"Every syllable. When the chance of an effectual reply offered, I
recalled his disjointed remarks collectively."
"Did you hit him very hard?"
"Just hard enough to stop him from annoying you further tonight."
"I suppose he deserved it. He was horrid. But I don't wish you to meet
him again just now. He is no coward, and he might attack you."
"That would be most unfortunate," he agreed.
"So, if you don't mind, we'll take a roundabout way. By skirting the
Quarry Wood we can reach the avenue, near the place where we met this
evening. Do you remember?"
"Perfectly. I shall be very old before I forget."
"But I mean the place where we met. Of course, you could hardly
pretend that you had forgotten meeting me."
"As soon would the daffodil forget where last it bloomed.
"Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty.
"Not that I should quote you 'A Winter's Tale,' but rather search my
poor store for apter lines from 'A Midsummer Night's Dream':
"I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with luxurious woodbine,
With sweet musk roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania.
"Believe me, I have an excellent memory--for some things."
They walked together in silence a little way, and dreamed, perchance,
that they were wandering in Oberon's realm with Hermia and Lysander.
Then Sylvia, stealing a shy glance at the tall figure by her side,
acknowledged that once she filled the role of Titania in a schoolroom
version of the play.
"We had no man," she said, "but the masks and costumes served us well.
After a day's study I could be a Fairy Queen once more.
"I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again;
Mine ear is much enraptured of thy note----"
She stopped suddenly. The next lines were distinctly amorous. He
laughed with ready appreciation of her difficulty, but generously
provided a way out.
"Poor mortal!" he tittered. "And must I wear an ass's head to be in
character?"
A loud report, and then another, brought them back rudely from a
make-believe wood near Athens to a peril-haunted park in an English
county. For the second time that night Sylvia knew what fear meant.
Intuitively, she shrank close to the strong man who seemed destined
to be her protector; and when an arm clasped her again, she cowered
close to its sheltering embrace.
"Oh, what is it?" she wailed in terror.
"It is hard to say," he answered quietly, and the confidence in his
voice was the best assurance of safety he could have given. "Those
shots were fired from some sort of rifle, not of the same caliber as
that which was used this morning, but unquestionably a rifle. Perhaps
it is one of these modern pistols. I don't wish to alarm you
needlessly, Miss Manning, but there is some probability that the
police have discovered the man who killed Mr. Fenley, and there is a
struggle going on. At any rate, let us remain out here in the open. We
shall be as safe here as anywhere."
Sylvia, who had not been afraid to venture alone into the park at
midnight, was now in a quite feminine state of fright. She clung to
Trenholme without any pretense of other feeling than one of unbounded
trust. Her heart was pounding frantically, and she was trembling from
head to foot.
The police whistles were shrilling their insistent summons for help,
and Trenholme knew that the commotion had arisen in the exact part of
the Quarry Wood whence the murderous bullet had sped that morning. He
was unarmed, of course, being devoid of even such a mildly aggressive
weapon as a walking-stick, but there was doubt in his mind that the
best thing to do was to stand fast. He was not blind to the
possibility of imminent danger, for the very spot they had reached lay
in a likely line of retreat for any desperado whom the police might
have discovered and be pursuing. Naturally he took it for granted that
the criminal had fired the two shots, and the fact that the whistles
were still in full blast showed that the chase had not been abandoned.
Still, the only course open was to take such chances as came their
way. He could always shield the girl with his own body, or tell her to
lie flat on the ground while he closed with an assailant if
opportunity served. Being a level-headed, plucky youngster, he was by
no means desirous of indulging in deeds of derring-do. The one
paramount consideration was the safe conduct of Sylvia to the house,
and he hoped sincerely that if a miscreant were trying to escape, he
would choose any route save that which led from the wood to Roxton
village.
"Don't hesitate if I bid you throw yourself down at full length," he
said, unconsciously stroking Sylvia's hair with his free hand. "In a
minute or two we'll make for the avenue. Meanwhile, let us listen. If
any one is coming in this direction we ought to hear him, and
forewarned is forearmed."
Choking back a broken question, she strove submissively to check her
distressed sobbing. Were it not for the hubbub of thousands of rooks
and pheasants they would assuredly have caught the sounds of Hilton
Fenley's panic-stricken onrush through the trees. As it was, he saw
them first, and, even in his rabid frenzy, recognized Sylvia. It was
only to be expected that he should mistake Trenholme for his brother,
and in a new spasm of fright, he recollected he was carrying the
rifle. Robert Fenley, of course, would identify it at a glance, and
could hardly fail to be more than suspicious at sight of it. With an
oath, he threw the telltale weapon back among the undergrowth, and,
summoning the last shreds of his shattered nerves to lend some degree
of self-control, walked rapidly out into the open park.
Sylvia saw him and shrieked. Trenholme was about to thrust her behind
him, when some familiar attribute about the outline of the approaching
figure caused her to cry--
"Why, it's Hilton!"
"Yes, Sylvia," came the breathless answer. "You heard the firing, of
course? The police have found some fellow in the wood. You and Bob
make for the avenue. I'm going this way in case he breaks cover for
the Roxton gate. Hurry! You'll find some of the men there. Never mind
about me. I'll be all right!"
He was running while he talked, edging away toward the group of
cedars; and, under the conditions, it was not for Trenholme to
undeceive him as to the mistake in regarding the artist as Robert
Fenley. In any event, the appearance of Hilton from that part of the
wood seemed to prove that the man whom the law was seeking could not
be in the same locality, so Trenholme did not hesitate to urge Sylvia
to fall in with her "cousin's" instructions.
For the time, then, they may be left to progress uninterruptedly
to safety and not very prompt enlightenment; the flight of the
self-confessed murderer calls for more immediate attention. Probably,
after the first moment of suspense, and when he was sure that escape
was still not utterly impracticable, he intended to cross the park to
the northwest and climb the boundary wall. But a glimpse of the black
line of trees daunted him. He simply dared not face those pitiless
sentinels again. He pictured himself forcing a way through the
undergrowth in the dense gloom and failing perhaps; for the vegetation
was wilder there than in any other portion of the estate. So, making a
detour, he headed for the unencumbered parkland once more, and gained
the wall near Jackson's farm about the time that Trenholme and Sylvia
entered the avenue.
He was unquestionably in a parlous state. Bare-headed, unarmed, he
could not fail to attract attention in a district where every resident
knew the other, nor could he resist capture when the hue and cry went
forth. What to do he knew not. Even if he managed to reach the railway
station unchallenged, the last train of the day had left for London
soon after eleven, and the earliest next morning was timed for five
o'clock, too late by many hours to serve his desperate need.
Could he hire a motor car or bicycle? The effort was fraught with
every variety of risk. There was a small garage at Easton, but those
cunning detectives would be raising the countryside already, and the
telephone would close every outlet. For the first time in his life
Hilton Fenley realized that the world is too small to hold a murderer.
He was free, would soon have the choice of a network of main roads and
lanes in a rural district at the dead hour of the night, yet he felt
himself securely caged as some creature of the jungle trapped in a
pit.
Crossing Jackson's farmyard, not without disturbing a dog just
quieting down after the preceding racket, he hurried into the village
street, having made up his mind to face the inevitable and arouse the
garage keeper. By the irony of fate he passed the cottage in which
Police Constable Farrow was lying asleep and utterly unaware of the
prevalent excitement, to join in which he would have kept awake all
that night and the next.
Then the turn of Fortune's wheel befriended Fenley again. Outside a
house stood Dr. Stern's car, a closed-in runabout in which both the
doctor and his chauffeur were sheltered from inclement weather. The
chauffeur was lounging on the pavement, smoking a cigarette, and
Fenley, of course, recognized him. His heart leaped. Let him be bold
now, and he might win through. A handkerchief wiped some of the blood
off his face where the skin had been broken by the trees, and he
avoided the glare of the lamps.
"Hello, Tom," he said, "where is the doctor?"
"Inside, sir," with a glance toward an upper room where a light shone.
"What's happened at The Towers, sir? Was it shooting I heard a while
since?"
"Yes. A false alarm, though. The police thought they had found some
suspicious character in the grounds."
"By jing, sir, did they fire at him?"
Fenley saw that the story was weak, and hastened to correct it.
"No, no," he said. "The police don't shoot first. That was my brother,
Robert. You know what a harebrained fellow he is. Said he fired in
order to make the man double back. But that is a small matter. Can I
have one word with Dr. Stern?"
"I'll see, sir," and the chauffeur went to the house.
Furneaux had estimated Hilton Fenley correctly in ascribing to him
the quality of cold-bloodedness. Ninety-nine men among a hundred would
have appropriated the motor car then and there, but Fenley saw by
waiting a minute and displaying the requisite coolness he might
succeed in throwing his pursuers off the trail for some hours.
Stern came. It chanced that he was watching a good patient through a
crisis, and would be detained until daybreak.
"Hello, Hilton," he cried. "What's up now, and what's the racket in
the park?"
Fenley explained, but hurried to the vital matter.
"My car is out of action," he said. "I was going to the Easton garage
to hire one when I saw yours standing here. Lend it to me for a couple
of hours; there's a good fellow. I'll pay well for the use of it."
"Pay? Nonsense! Jump in! Take Mr. Fenley where he wants to go, Tom.
Where to first, Hilton?"
"St. Albans. I'm exceedingly obliged. And look here, Stern, I insist
on paying."
"We can settle that afterwards. Off with you. I'll walk home, Tom."
Away sped the car. Running through Easton, Fenley saw two policemen
stationed at a cross-road. They signaled the car to stop, and his
blood curdled, but, in the same instant, they saw the chauffeur's
face; the other occupant was cowering as far back in the shadow as
possible.
"Oh, it's Dr. Stern," said one. "Right, Tom. By the way, have you seen
anything of----"
"Go on, do!" growled Fenley, drowning the man's voice. "I'm in a vile
hurry."
That was his last real hairbreadth escape--for that night, at any
rate, though other thrills were in store. The chauffeur was greatly
surprised when bidden to go on from St. Albans to London, and take the
High Barnet road to the City; but Fenley produced a five-pound note at
the right moment, and the man reflected that his master would not
hesitate to oblige a wealthy client, who evidently meant to make good
the wear and tear on the car.
In about an hour Fenley alighted on the pavement opposite the firm's
premises in Bishopsgate Street. If a policeman had chanced to be
standing there the fugitive would have known that the game was up, but
the only wayfarers in that part of the thoroughfare were some street
cleaners.
Now that he saw a glimmer of light where hitherto all was darkness, he
was absolutely clear-brained and cool in manner.
"Wait five minutes," he said. "I sha'n't detain you longer."
He let himself in with a master key, taken from his dead father's
pockets earlier by Tomlinson. Going to the banker's private office,
he ransacked a safe and a cabinet with hasty method. He secured a hat,
an overcoat, an umbrella and a packed suitcase, left there for
emergency journeys in connection with the business, and was back in
the street again within less than the specified time.
His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth when he found a policeman
chatting with the chauffeur, but the man saluted him with a civil
"Good morning!"
In the City of London, which is deserted as a cemetery from ten
o'clock at night till six in the morning, the police keep a sharp eye
on waiting cabs and automobiles between these hours, and invariably
inquire their business.
This constable was quite satisfied that all was well when he saw Mr.
Hilton Fenley, whom he knew by sight. In any event, the flying
murderer was safer than he dared hope in that place and at that time.
The Roxton telephonic system was temporarily useless in so far as it
affected his movements; for a fire had broken out at The Towers, and
the flames of the burning roof had been as a beacon for miles around
during the whole of the time consumed by the run to London.