IN the study Colin rose to his feet, a prey to distress and wrath.
Kitty’s message fluttered in his hand.
“I had better take the midnight train,” he said, striving for control.
“To what end?” Risk gently asked, while Hilda, who looked worn-out, took
a step forward as if to speak.
“To compel that blackguard Corrie—”
“Please sit down again, Hayward,” Risk said, enforcing his words with a
mild pressure. “As far as we can see it at the moment, Corrie had no
direct hand in the outrage—”
“He has got the Post Office authorities to act—”
“The post office people had nothing to do with it. Pull yourself
together, man! I’m going to give you a shock. . . You tell him, Hilda.”
“Mr. Hayward,” she said, pityingly, “the person who took Kitty away was
merely masquerading as a detective. He had nothing to do with the police
or the Post Office. My brother learned that much within a few minutes
after my giving him the alarm. . . . But don’t let this crush you. We
want your help, you know.” Hilda had a way of striking the right note.
Colin got a grip on himself. “Symington, of course,” he said, steadying
his voice.
“Oh, of course!” she assented bitterly. “And I went out and left her
alone!”
“At the same time,” said Risk, “Symington did not move from his hotel
after eight o’clock last night, and he went North by the mail train at
five this morning. That does not prove his innocence; on the other hand,
it does not help to prove the other thing.”
“You have set the police to work?” said Colin sharply. At that moment he
hated Risk. Why on earth had not the man held up Symington the moment he
doubted the latter’s right to the Zeniths? Why had he insisted on making
a “game” of it all? . . . But the feeling passed. He knew too well that
Risk had been as sincerely anxious to shield Kitty from anything sordid
and ugly as he had been eager to serve her material interests.
“No,” said Risk mildly. “I have no supercilious feelings about the
methods of our police, but for Miss Carstairs’ own sake we want publicity
less than ever now. I have eight men at work, who will do all that
Scotland Yard could do—and I am not resting much myself.”
Colin thought for a moment. “Knowing what we do,” he said, “we don’t
need to look far for a motive on Symington’s part. The Zeniths alone—”
“Kitty will never give in,” cried Hilda. “He’ll never force her to marry
him.”
“Good God!” groaned Colin, “to think of her being in that scoundrel’s
power!”
Risk laid a hand on his shoulder. “Blame me, if you must, Hayward,” he
said quietly, “but don’t give way to despair.” After a slight pause he
added: “Give me four days.”
“You have a clue?”
“Not quite—only the means, I hope, of obtaining one. But don’t ask me
questions. My plan may be unnecessary after all. We may perhaps find
the way without it.”
“But, Mr. Risk, can’t you put your plan into operation at once?”
“It requires some developing. . . . For Heaven’s sake, Hayward,”
exclaimed Risk, with unwonted warmth, “try to believe that I’d give all I
have if I could get the poor girl out of that cad’s clutches without an
hour’s delay!”
“You will trust my brother, won’t you?” said Hilda softly, and next
moment Colin was silently wringing Risk’s hand. Somehow, he could not
doubt this man.
“And what can I do?” he asked presently.
“Though it may seem out of place, I want you now to tell me the results
of your journey. Also let me have the films you exposed. By the way,”
Risk went on, “West has got a week’s leave, and is going to spend a few
days in the neighbourhood of Dunford. He’s unknown there, and another
flying visit from you might seem more than odd to some people—besides, I
want you here. Only, I’d like you to see West before he starts by the
midnight train—you may be able to give him some hints about the district,
and so on. Therefore, we’ll get on with our talk, and you can be over at
Euston soon after 11.30. He expects you. He would have come here, but
he had an appointment with the manager of the Planet Theatre—”
“You see,” put in Hilda, “we are so sure of having Kitty with us again,
almost immediately, that the play is going forward as if nothing had
happened.”
It is to be feared that Colin did not find much comfort in the remark,
but at least it reminded him once more that a cool head was then of
greater value to Kitty’s cause than all the warm hearts in the world.
Though he could not have stated why, he was feeling a little less
cheerless when he left Aberdare Mansions for the meeting with West. He
was noting in his mind certain suggestions which he thought might be of
use to his friend, and absentmindedly looking out for a taxi-cab, when
one appeared and came to the pavement in response to his signal.
“Euston,” he said and got in.
But as he was about to draw to the door, a hand was laid on it and a
voice requested the driver to “Hold on.”
“Excuse me,” continued the voice, which belonged to a shabby, genteel,
sharp-featured young man, “but I think you are Mr. Colin Hayward.” An
uncleanly hand presented an envelope.
“What’s this?” muttered Colin, then seized it with a start. It was the
covering of a note he had sent Kitty a week ago. “Where did you get
this?” he demanded.
“Through a barred window,” was the answer. “The lady told me what you
were like, and where I’d be likely to find you—this isn’t the first place
I’ve tried—and she gave me a sovereign, and she said you would be sure to
give me another, sir.” An unclean palm slid forward hopefully.
“But look here,” cried Colin, his heart thumping, “there’s no message
written here! Have you lost—”
“The lady said she had nothing to write with, but she said you would
surely understand and come quick.”
Colin drew a long breath. “Where is—the barred window?”
“Gimme the sovereign, please, and I’ll show you. It’s not far.”
“I’ll give you five sovereigns when you’ve shown me!” said Colin. “Tell
the man where to go and get inside.”
He had not forgotten about West, and Risk was still in his mind, but they
suddenly ceased to matter.
“How far?” he inquired, as the cab started.
“About ten minutes from here.”
“What sort of place is it?”
“Respectable—oh, quite respectable, but not the sort of place a gentleman
like you would fancy to live in, sir. First time I was ever there, too.
Just taking a stroll, wondering where I was going to get my next meal,
when I heard a female cry from an area, and looking down I saw a hand
moving at a window, a few inches open, behind bars—”
“That’ll do. Look here, I may require your help.”
“Welcome, sir—when I’ve touched that fiver.”
“Take it now.” A bank-note rustled.
“You’re a real gentleman! Thank ’ee, sir!”
Before long the cab left familiar thoroughfares, and began a journey
through a succession of more or less mean streets. In reply to Colin’s
questions his companion named some of them, without, however, making
Colin much the wiser. But what mattered it whither he was going so long
as it was to Kitty? His heart was wild with anticipation; his hand
trembled on the crushed envelope that she had so lately touched. He had
no fear of not being able to rescue her. If necessary he would request
police assistance, but he did not expect to have to go that length.
People who abducted girls, or took temporary charge of them, were not the
sort to wait for the police. Colin, too, had a fairly heavy stick which
Sharp had put into his hand as he left the flat. Certainly he was not
afraid. He looked at his watch. Why, he might not only rescue Kitty,
but manage to catch West at Euston also! As for Symington and Corrie. . . .
The shabby-genteel young man began to talk earnestly.
The cab stopped at a corner. The guide got out and walked slowly down a
narrow pavement, in front of houses that still wore an air of
respectability, dingy indeed, and decaying, but not to be wholly
suppressed. The long street was indifferently lighted and void of
traffic.
Colin paid the driver and followed. By arrangement he did not overtake
his guide, but watched him for a signal.
They were half-way down the street when the leader threw out his left
arm. Colin marked the position; and on reaching it found a gateless
space in the railing leading to a steep and narrow flight of steps. He
paused for a moment, noted the second low window on his right, which
showed a very faint glimmer behind its bars and blind, looked again to
make sure that his guide had halted within call, as agreed, and with a
wave of his hand, and grasping his stick, began cautiously to descend
into the darkness. A moment later he was tapping discreetly on the
window, and then—
He was seized from behind, thrown backwards and downwards, into, as it
seemed, an atmosphere of chloroform. The last distinct sounds he heard
were the pants of a motor and a strange voice saying, “Hurry up, there’s
the car.”
* * * * *
At five minutes before midnight Anthony West rushed from the train to a
telephone box and rang up Risk.
“Colin hasn’t turned up,” he said, without preamble.
For the first time Miss Risk heard her brother swear. But he did it
without losing his calmness.
“Then you must go on, Anthony, and carry out the programme as well as you
can,” he replied. “You must use your own discretion a little more;
that’s all. Don’t lose your train. Accidents will happen. Good luck to
you.”
He hung up the receiver, and turned to his sister, his face expressing
grave concern.
“Hayward has not arrived at Euston. Of course, he may have met with an
accident—but now I could almost bet that Symington did not really go
North this morning—or rather, he turned back before he had gone far. I
ought to have given the beggar credit for more cunning.”
Hilda considered before she asked: “But why in the world should Symington
want to harm him?”
“There may be several reasons. Perhaps I ought to tell you where Hayward
disappeared that night you and Miss Carstairs were dining here. He went
to Symington’s hotel, and gave the rascal a sound thrashing—”
“Oh, splendid!”
“Yes, but indiscreet.” He sighed. “I don’t like it. Cad as he is, I
could almost trust Symington not to maltreat the girl, but. . . .” He
returned to the telephone and rang up a police station on the route that
a cab would naturally take to Euston.
“But he would never dare,” began Hilda, and stopped short, remembering
Symington’s face as she had seen it that night in the train. Cruel—that
was the word—the face of a man who would inflict torture to gain his end.
Risk had hit on the truth, Symington had not gone far North that morning.
As a matter of fact he had left the train at Rugby, entered a powerful
motor-car, and came South again—not to the Kingsway Grand Hotel, but to a
rather dilapidated mansion situated at 336 Lester Road, Richmond.
* * * * *
At Dunford on the following evening, John Corrie found among the letters
from the South one for himself. For the second time he gazed at a single
pencilled word—“Arrested”—and shuddered ’twixt terror and hope. The
man’s nerves seemed to be in rags, for he paled, started violently, and
dropped the letter when the door of the post office opened.
But it was only a tourist who entered. Corrie’s whole being bounded up
in relief—only to drop sickeningly at the stranger’s first words—
“I wish to see Miss Kitty Carstairs.”