THE LAST FIGHT
As the car ran southwards and came to Oxford Street, Westerham thrust
Patmore on to the floor and sat holding him between his knees.
Without pity, he again seized the shrinking man's neck in his great
hands.
“Understand,” he said in a low voice, “that if you attempt to cry out
you will be strangled.”
Patmore made a choking noise to indicate that he understood, and the
car went on at a great pace through Regent Street across Piccadilly,
and so reached Whitehall.
Westerham had decided that, apart from the necessity of giving Lord
Penshurst the good news, it would be better to take the Premier with
them to the farm in Kent at which Westerham had learned Kathleen was
imprisoned.
It was close on midnight when Lowther brought the car to a standstill
in Downing Street. Mendip, who had abandoned his obviously futile
watching in Queen Victoria Street, had returned some time before, and
now rushed out to meet them.
“He's inside,” said Lowther, jerking his head back, and Mendip thrust
his head through the window peering into the gloom in search of
Westerham.
“It is all right,” said Westerham, quietly. “Don't rouse anybody, but
get Lord Penshurst out here at once. I have got a man in here with me
and my hands are full.”
He gave Patmore's back a by no means tender squeeze as a further
indication that he had no intention of relinquishing his grip.
Mendip ran inside, and finding the Premier, brought him to the car.
“Well,” he said eagerly, “have you news at last?”
“Yes,” answered Westerham. “I have discovered Lady Kathleen's
whereabouts, and I think we shall be just in time. But we must start
at once, and you had better come with us. Mendip, get Lord Penshurst a
hat.”
They were off again in a few minutes, Mendip riding beside Lowther, and
the Premier beside Westerham in the body of the car.
He inquired eagerly as to the man whom Westerham still held between his
knees, and Westerham, to Patmore's shame, briefly outlined what had
passed since he had kept the appointment at St. Paul's.
There were some things which he did not tell the Premier, and Patmore,
wincing under yet another squeeze from Westerham's ruthless fingers,
held his peace.
The man had given them fairly accurate directions as to the road which
they must take, and Lowther made good speed through New Cross and so to
Bromley. They kept on down the main road till they passed Farnborough,
where, in accordance with Patmore's instructions, he branched off to
the left, and leaving Cudham behind them, he swept down the hill to
Westerham, the place from which Sir Paul took his name.
They were now, indeed, travelling along the same route which Melun had
taken when he had kidnapped Lady Kathleen in Richmond Park.
As they ran through Sevenoaks Westerham lowered the windows and made
Patmore kneel on the front of the seat, so that he could the better
point out the way to Lowther.
Lowther knew the district fairly well, and whistled to himself as
Patmore directed him to turn up to the right before they reached
Hildenborough.
The car was now heading for Edenbridge, and he knew they were racing
along the foot of that great range of hills, the southern slopes of
which are almost as precipitous and desolate as the moors of Devon.
Before long Patmore directed Lowther to turn to the right again, and he
had to put the car on to her second and then on to her third speed as
the hill rose up almost sheer before them.
“How much further is it?” he asked over his shoulder as the engines of
the motor complained bitterly at the ascent.
“About another half-mile. Then you get on to a sort of plateau. There
you must turn to the left.”
“How far will the turning be from the house?” asked Westerham.
“I'm not sure,” replied Patmore, “but I should think about five hundred
yards. You will have to drive through what is practically a bridle-path
and take it gently. It is an awkward place on a dark night.”
The man was in considerable pain as the result of the treatment he had
met with at Finchley, and now and again he groaned so pitifully that at
last Westerham let him slide down from the seat on to the floor of the
car again.
Lord Penshurst asked what ailed him. And Patmore would have spoken had
not Westerham dug his fingers into his ribs. Patmore knew well enough
what that dig in his ribs meant, and wisely kept silent.
As the car groaned and snorted her way up the hill Westerham took
counsel with himself. He was doubtful as to the wisdom of running up to
the door, lest the noise of the car's approach should give Melun and
the other inmates of the farm warning of their approach. He reflected,
however, that the warning would be very slight, and that, for all he
could tell, every moment might count. So he held on, and as they turned
into the bridle-path he urged Lowther to use all the speed he dared.
It was intensely dark beneath the trees, and Westerham sitting in the
blackness of the body of the car, could hear light boughs and sometimes
heavy branches scrape along the sides.
Suddenly the car stopped and, looking out of the window, Westerham,
whose eyes were used to the darkest night, could discern that they were
in a little clearing.
He jumped out and, turning round, he took out a spare revolver which he
had brought with him and placed it in Lord Penshurst's hand.
“Lord Penshurst,” Westerham said, “it is necessary for someone to keep
an eye on this man. I have no idea how many of Melun's gang may be
waiting for us. I am told probably not more than two; but one cannot
take anything of that sort on trust, and to avoid all unnecessary risks
I shall want Mendip and Lowther with me.”
The Premier, whom the drive and the near approach of danger had
rendered alert and almost cheerful, nodded at Westerham in the darkness.
“All right,” he said, and his gnarled but still sinewy hand took a firm
grip on Patmore's collar.
“You had better sit still,” he said, and Patmore cringed at the
Premier's knees. His spirit was entirely broken by the agony he was now
enduring.
The ray from one of the lamps outlined the shape of a gate.
“Here we are,” cried Westerham in a low voice, and in a second he
had jumped forward and pulled the iron catch back and taken a stride
forward. But his eager foot found no foothold. His hand was torn from
its grasp of the gate, and he pitched forward, to find himself plunged
up to the neck in icy water.
So great was the shock that he cried out a little as he spluttered and
blew the water from his mouth. A couple of strokes brought him back to
the gate again, and as he clutched it he looked up at the silent house.
Even as he did so he caught a little spit of flame from one of the
windows and a bullet splashed into the water beside his head. There was
another spit of flame, and he felt his knuckles tingle as though they
had been rapped with a red-hot iron.
Then Mendip gripped him by the collar, and with his aid he scrambled up
on to the path.
Lowther, who had been quick to see the necessity of instant action,
was by this time firing back at the place from which the little spits
of flame had come far above them. In the darkness he answered shot for
shot.
After the sound of the shots came a complete silence, and Westerham, as
he stood stock-still beside the gate, which was now swinging idly over
the pond, could hear the patter of the water on the path as it dripped
from his clothes.
Mendip, as soon as he had seen that Westerham was safe, had run along
the hedge, and now he gave a shout.
“This is the gate we want,” he cried.
But a third spit of flame came from the darkness overhead, and
Westerham heard Mendip swearing softly under his breath. Whoever their
unknown assailant might be, he was no mean marksman.
Westerham and Lowther ran to Mendip's aid.
“What's up?” asked Westerham.
“Nothing,” answered Mendip, and he got the gate opened. The three men
dashed up the path and reached the door of the farmhouse; but it was
made of stout oak, and securely fastened within.
They thrust their shoulders against it without avail, and then stood
looking at one another, panting, and for the moment baffled.
It was then that Westerham's quick ear caught a woman's voice. He
whipped round and looked across the sheet of water. His eyes were now
well accustomed to the gloom, and he saw the form of a woman leaning
far out of a window and gesticulating wildly.
He held up his hand to the others for silence, and then once more
came a voice which he instantly recognised. It was the voice of Mme.
Estelle.
“Be quick! Be quick!” she cried. “If you don't wish to be too late, you
must swim the pond, the door is barred.”
Westerham cast a quick glance behind him, and his eyes fell on the gate.
“Use that as a battering ram,” he ordered, and then his jaws closed
over the butt of his revolver.
Without hesitation he waded in, and a few strong strokes brought him
beneath the window out of which Mme. Estelle leant and waved.
He knew instinctively by her accents that she was terrified beyond
measure and that he need not expect treachery from her.
With one hand he clutched the sill, with the other he reached up and
shifting the safety-cap on with his thumb, let his revolver fall into
the room.
Soaked as he was with water, it was not an easy task to hoist himself
up and clamber through the window, and when at last he stood within the
room he leant against the wall partially exhausted and breathing hard.
Mme. Estelle stood before him wringing her hands.
“Be quick!” she said again. “Be quick! be quick! or you will be too
late. That fiend Melun is at his work.”
By the light of the candles which flickered on the mantelpiece
Westerham made his way to the door.
Seizing the handle, he turned it, but the lock held fast. He examined
it swiftly, and to his joy saw that it opened outwards. He drew back a
yard, and then sent the whole of his great weight crashing against the
panels. And with good fortune the door of the room, although stoutly
built, was partially rotten. It burst wide open before his weight and
sent him sprawling on to his face in the passage.
As he lay there half-stunned his pulses throbbed again as the noise
which came from the main entrance told him that Lowther and Mendip were
making good use of the gate.
He dragged himself up to his knees, still clutching his revolver, and
at the same moment the outer door gave up its resistance, and Lowther
and Mendip came headlong into the hall-way.
He heard them give a warning shout as he struggled to his feet,
steadying himself by the pillars of the banisters.
Looking up the stairs, he saw the brutal face of Crow on the landing,
his strong, yellow teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
Westerham heard the sound of a shot, and at the same time felt the
hands of Mme. Estelle give him a push.
Her intention was unselfish, almost heroic; she saved Westerham's life,
but lost her own.
She pitched forward with a little gasping sigh and lay still, huddled
on the stairs. Westerham heard a second shot rap out from behind his
back, and saw Crow stagger on the landing. The man reeled for a couple
of paces and then fell heavily.
Westerham had by this time fully got back his senses and his breath;
and now he heard coming from somewhere high above him scream after
scream of dreadful terror.
He plunged up the staircase, and stepping across the body of Crow as it
lay on the landing, raced up the second flight of stairs. For a moment
he paused, in order to make doubly sure whence the dreadful screaming
came.
Then he had no doubt, and dashed on, up to the third flight, till he
came to the topmost landing.
Here he was confronted by a door, and he groaned within himself. He was
living in some awful nightmare at which a door faced him at every turn.
He emptied his revolver in the lock and hurled himself in frenzy
against this further obstruction; it gave way, and he tottered into the
room, the lights of which for a moment dazzled him.
His half-blinded eyes were greeted by the sight which he had dreaded
ever since he had come to the farm on the hill.
Kathleen was fighting desperately, and for life, with Melun.
With a great cry Westerham leapt forward, but he was too late to
exercise that vengeance which had now full possession of his soul.
Melun flung Kathleen to one side, and for a second turned his pallid
face, in which his eyes were burning like a madman's, full on Westerham
as he dashed on him.
Then without a sound he leapt aside, and vaulting on to the sill of the
open window, jumped out.
Instinctively Westerham knew what was coming, and catching Kathleen
to him, held her head against his breast, stopping her ears with
his hands. As his palms closed upon them his heart grew sick as he
remembered the dreadful thing which had come to Downing Street earlier
in the day.
But to his unutterable joy—joy which was almost a shock—his hands
told him that Melun's hideous warning had been but a brutal hoax.
Kathleen was never told of it.
Then as he stood there with his eyes bent on her hair, he heard the
sickening sound of Melun's body thud on to the stones below.
Releasing Kathleen's ears, he put his hand under her chin and lifted
up her face. He marvelled that she had not fainted, but the dreadful
horror in her eyes struck into his heart like a blow.
He had to hold her to prevent her falling to the floor, and so he stood
for some few seconds with Kathleen limp and shivering in his arms.
Bracing himself for one last effort, Westerham lifted Kathleen up and
bore her out of the room. Half-dazed, he stumbled down the stairs with
her until he reached the hall.
In the doorway he saw Lord Penshurst, still clinging grimly to
Patmore's collar, but at the sight of Kathleen the Premier released his
hold and came running forward with outstretched arms.
“Just a minute,” said Westerham, quickly, and he walked into the room,
the door of which he had shattered.
In the meantime Mendip and Lowther had picked up Mme. Estelle and
carried her into the same room, and now she lay on the couch, her face
growing grey with the shadows of death, and her breath coming fast and
feebly. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling with an intense and horrible
fixity.
Westerham pushed an armchair round with his foot and set Kathleen down
on it so that her back was turned to the dying woman.
Lord Penshurst fell on his knees beside the chair, and seizing his
daughter's hands, held them against his breast, and for a little while
wept quietly.
Westerham crossed over to Mme. Estelle and stood over her. He put his
hand against her heart and listened to her breathing.
“I am afraid,” he said in a low voice to Mendip, “that we can do
nothing for her. It is a bad business. Heaven forgive her for anything
she has done amiss! She did her best to make amends.”
Then he drew Lowther out of the room and told him to fetch a lamp from
the car. Patmore was sitting on the stairs with his face hidden in his
hands.
“Never mind him,” said Westerham, as Lowther gave the man a glance, “we
shall have no more trouble from that quarter.”
When Lowther had fetched the lamp Westerham took it and began rapidly
to examine round the ground floor of the rambling building. He was
seeking for the courtyard into which Melun had fallen.
At last they found it, and found, too, all that remained of Melun. He
was battered and crushed and bruised almost beyond recognition.
Westerham set his face and straightened the twisted and distorted body
out. Then began the grim task of searching the dead man's clothes. He
turned out every pocket, and with a knife ripped open every lining. But
the papers which he sought were not there.
He straightened himself, and picking up the lamp led the way back into
the house.
By this time Kathleen, though very pale and still shaken, was quite
composed. Indeed, she was now more self-possessed than the Premier. She
was doing her utmost to quiet his still painful agitation.
Westerham looked into Kathleen's face, and seeing how strong and
resolute it was, felt no hesitation in speaking before her.
“Lord Penshurst,” he said, very quietly, “Melun is dead.”
The Premier glanced at him quickly and then turned to his daughter.
“Thank heaven!” he cried.
“Hush,” said Kathleen, gently, and taking her father by the arm she
pointed to Mme. Estelle.
Mendip had done what he could, and the unhappy woman had, to some
extent, come back to consciousness.
She was indeed sufficiently alive to catch Westerham's words. She
brought her fast fading eyes down from the ceiling and searched
Westerham's face.
“Melun!” she muttered to herself: “Melun!”
Westerham drew near and knelt down by the couch. He took one of her
hands, which was even then growing cold.
“Melun?” she asked again in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
Westerham put his mouth down to her ear and said slowly, “He is dead.”
The shock of the news acted on the woman in a most extraordinary way.
With a convulsive movement she suddenly gathered herself together and
sat bolt upright on the couch. She would have fallen back again had not
Westerham caught her in his arms.
“The papers!” she gasped.
“Yes?” said Westerham, kindly and soothingly. “Where are they?”
With a faint movement she pointed towards Westerham's feet. “There!”
she gasped.
To Westerham it seemed as if she were already beginning to wander in
her mind, but he said still kindly and soothingly, “Yes, yes, I know!
But where?”
The woman opened her mouth and made two or three efforts before she
spoke again, and then she only breathed the word “Boots!”
Westerham's gaze wandered over the sideboard.
“See if you can find any brandy,” he said to Mendip.
Mendip could find no brandy, but brought some almost neat whisky over
in a glass.
Westerham took the glass from Mendip's hand and pressed it to Mme.
Estelle's lips. She revived a little, and suddenly spoke clearly and in
almost her normal voice.
“Sir Paul,” she said, “the papers are in your boots!”
For a moment Westerham stared into the dying woman's face, under the
impression that her reason had departed from her. But with a start he
remembered how he had awoke in St. John's Wood, after being drugged,
to find himself dressed in strange clothes and in new footgear. And
for the first time the real significance of the removal of all his
apparel from his rooms in Bruton Street struck him with full force. He
remembered, too, that from the night he had left Mme. Estelle, Melun,
by one swift action after another, had kept him constantly on the
move, so that it had been impossible for him so much as to order fresh
clothes.
To the astonishment of Lord Penshurst and Kathleen, and to the
wonderment of Lowther and Mendip, Westerham propped Mme. Estelle up
against the pillows and began rapidly to remove his boots.
Comfortable though they had been, it had always struck him that they
were unnaturally deep between the outer and the inner sole. The meaning
of that came clearly home to him now.
No sooner had he pulled off his boots than he took a knife and began to
rip feverishly at the heels. He succeeded in detaching them, and was
then able easily to rip open the soles.
He was now fully prepared for any turn of events, but he could not
repress an exclamation, as in tearing away the upper layers of leather,
his eyes fell on a dozen neatly-folded sheets of tissue paper.
He drew them out, and with a cry Lord Penshurst snatched them from his
hand.
Westerham saw at a glance that the Premier had regained the papers
he had lost—the papers which had jeopardised, not only the peace of
nations, but his own and his daughter's honour.
Westerham seized the other boot, but Mme. Estelle shook her head. “Look
afterwards,” she gasped, “not now.”
Westerham held the whisky to her lips again, and again she rallied
slightly.
“The papers,” she said faintly, “were deposited at the poste-restante,
St. Martin's-le-Grand, in my name. But Melun really thought you had
discovered where they were and took them away. There was not a single
place in which we could hope to hide them safely. It was I who thought
of your boots.
“I did it,” she said, with a wan little smile at Westerham, “partly to
save you. I knew that so long as you were safe the papers were safe.
“Melun was so certain that he would win,” she went on wearily, “I
don't think he really thought of doing you any injury. It struck him
that it would be an immense joke after he had got his way to tell Lord
Penshurst that the man who was trying to find the papers had them in
his possession all the time. I think sometimes he was mad.”
Madame paused, and her eyes contracted as though with pain.
“Forgive!” she gasped. Then her eyes became fixed and staring.
It was Westerham who drew the dead woman's eyelids down.
* * * * *
It was long past dawn when they reached Downing Street, and Lord
Penshurst at once sent in cipher a short message to the Czar, informing
his Majesty of the recovery of the papers.
Afterwards, in the Premier's own room, Westerham sat for a short while
with Kathleen and Lord Penshurst. But little was said, for, just as
some sorrows are too deep for tears, so there is some gratitude beyond
thanks.
“Westerham,” said the Premier, earnestly, “it is simply impossible
that I shall ever be able to repay you the great service you have
rendered me. But, believe me, if there is anything in the world it is
within my power to give you, you have but to ask to receive it.”
Westerham looked across at Kathleen, but said nothing. The time had
not yet come when he could ask Lord Penshurst for that which would a
thousand times repay him.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
What appeared to be clear typographical errors were corrected; any
other mistakes or inconsistencies were retained.
Paragraphs that were separated by an illustration were rejoined and the
image placed before or after the paragraph.
All quotation marks have been retained as they appear in the original
publication.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.