(_In the approved manner of the Sporting Feuilleton._)
Setting his teeth determinedly, Ralph Wonderson swarmed up the
Virginia-creeper until he reached the closely-shuttered window. Here he
clung precariously with one hand while with the other he produced a
gimlet and noiselessly bored two holes in the green shutters. Was he too
late? The question shot through his brain. With a quick intake of breath
he applied an eye to one hole and an ear to the other and watched and
listened.
In the lighted room before him sat Sir Ernest Scrivener (_alias_
Marmaduke Moorsdyke) and a brutal-looking stranger. Sir Ernest was
speaking.
"Everything, I think, is ready," he said in his cold, level voice. "The
wedding is to take place in the village church to-morrow at eleven. You,
Ragley, will take up your position, disguised as a policeman, by the
church porch, arrest Wonderson on a charge of arson, and detain him
until I arrive, if I should not be already there. I have here the
policeman's uniform complete. We are cub-hunting to-morrow morning, and
at the proper moment I shall leave the hunt and make my way across to
the church, provided with the forged warrant of arrest (which I shall,
as a magistrate, hand to you), the forged death certificate of my
present wife, and the forged special licence for the marriage of Lady
Margaret Tamerton and myself. You will then rush Wonderson off in the
motor which will be waiting, and I shall proceed to marry Lady Margaret.
Yes--yes, everything is quite ready."
"There's just one thing, Sir," said Ragley, "if you'll excuse me
mentioning it. Supposing as how the lady refuses like."
Sir Ernest tossed away his half-smoked cigar and smiled evilly.
"That has been foreseen," he said. "The shock of Wonderson's arrest will
cause her to feel faint. I shall have ready a bottle of smelling salts.
I need not go into details ... drugs ... loss of will power ... you
see...."
The blood boiling in Ralph's ears prevented him from hearing more. Only
the sight of the two murderous-looking revolvers on the table and the
knowledge that he could not afford to take risks at this juncture
stopped him from tearing open the shutters and dashing into the room.
Sir Ernest rose to his feet and simultaneously Ralph slid down the
creeper and regained _terra firma_. His mind was working rapidly.
* * *
The meet of the Chingerley Hunt made a gay spectacle. The red coats of
the men and the fascinating Parisian _toilettes_ of the ladies shone
resplendently in the morning sunshine, while the champing of the horses'
bits blended harmoniously with the choiring of numberless larks. Through
the brilliant throng moved the Master, Sir Ernest Scrivener, bowing his
greetings right and left as he passed.
A few minutes before the hour fixed for the start the approach of a
solitary horseman caused many eyebrows to lift in surprise, while Sir
Ernest for an instant went white to the teeth. Then he laughed
scornfully.
"Why, Wonderson!" cried one of the Hunt. "What on earth are you doing
here? I understood you were being married this morning."
"That is so," replied Ralph easily. "But I see no reason why I shouldn't
hunt first. DRAKE, you know, played bowls during a crisis, and NERO
fiddled."
As he spoke he watched Sir Ernest narrowly. The Master was making his
way towards the iron cage in which the fox cub was imprisoned. Ralph
edged his horse insensibly nearer.
Amid the eager plaudits of the Hunt Sir Ernest leaned down from his
saddle and raised the catch with a flourish. As he did so a packet of
papers fell from his breast pocket.
In a flash the released cub had pounced upon the papers and carried them
off in his mouth. With a savage oath Sir Ernest plunged his spurs into
his horse's flanks and gave chase. Ralph, perceiving instantly what had
happened and guessing the all-important nature of the papers, was by him
in a stride. Side by side the pair thundered along, while behind them
the hounds and hunters streamed out in a confused and glittering medley.
They were off! The hunt was up.
Crouching low on the necks of their panting steeds, the two protagonists
swept forward, plying remorselessly whip and spur, curb and snaffle. For
a time neither gained an inch. Then, without warning, the fox doubled.
With a single turn of his iron wrist Ralph wrenched his horse round
without the loss of a second, but as he glanced back over his shoulder
he perceived that the Master was only twenty yards behind. Ralph
redoubled his efforts, his eyes glued to the white bundle clenched in
the cub's dripping jaws.
Through field and farmyard, by barn and byre, over rick and river, they
sped, and ever the gap between the fox and Ralph lessened, while the gap
between Ralph and Sir Ernest grew wider, and the savage baying of the
hounds, mingled with the frenzied view halloos of the Hunt, receded
further into the distance. Never had the Chingerley Hunt known such a
chase.
At last Ralph recognized that his chance had come. Leaning over his
horse's ears, he took careful aim and slashed out with his long whip.
Unerringly the lash coiled round the papers and jerked them from the
fox's mouth. A single glance showed him that they were, as he had
anticipated, the forged documents.
Two minutes later Sir Ernest found the exhausted fox lying insensible by
the roadside. Glancing up, he perceived Ralph vanishing over the crest
of a hill.
"Curse him!" he muttered savagely. "Curse him! I must and will overtake
him before he reaches the church or the game is up. If I take a short
cut under the hill I can outwit him yet. Curse him again!"
Mercilessly lashing his foaming horse, he galloped in the direction of
the church. As he rode a sense of the urgency of the situation grew upon
him. If he arrived first, Wonderson could be arrested, if necessary at
the pistol's point, before he entered the churchyard, and the papers
recovered. If he was too late.... He plunged his spurs an inch deep into
his weary mount.
At length the desperate Mazeppa-like dash was over. As he shot through
the lych-gate Sir Ernest breathed a sigh of relief. A policeman stood by
the church porch awaiting him. Wonderson had been beaten.
With an ugly laugh of triumph he swung himself from the horse. Stolidly
the constable turned to face him. Sir Ernest gave one startled
exclamation as he saw, not Ragley, but a stranger. He had been
forestalled.
The heavy hand of a second policeman fell on his shoulder from behind.
"Sir Ernest Scrivener," said a voice solemnly, "I arrest you on a charge
of forgery, and I advise you to come quietly."
Sir Ernest glanced round and saw that he was completely surrounded by
police.
As the handcuffs clicked over his wrists there crashed above him the
joyous clamour of wedding bells.
* * *
Ralph Wonderson paused for a moment at the lych-gate, his lovely
fair-haired bride clinging to his arm. Standing in the mellow beauty of
the English landscape they made a memorable picture. A red-coated
figure, covered with the stains of hard riding, approached them, bowing
low. In his hand he held a magnificent fox's brush.
"This has been unanimously awarded to you, Sir," he said, "as a memento
of the finest ride in the annals of the Chingerley Hunt."
And, as Ralph and his bride raised the brush to their lips, from the
admiring throng which pressed about them went up that thrilling
immemorial hunting chorus, "_Tally-ho! Yoicks forrard! Rah! Rah!_"
* * * * *