The Duke followed the ride for some distance, the clamor of voices
around the wrecked train growing every moment less distinct till they
died away altogether, and he guessed that he was in the heart of the
wood, half a mile from the scene of the disaster. Whether or no he was
pursued he had no means of knowing, with such diabolical cunning pitted
against him; but, at any rate, no sound of pursuit reached his straining
ears, and he began to hope that his break-away had been undetected.
Suddenly the ride turned abruptly to the right, and at the end of a
glade, some hundred yards further on, he saw the lights of a dwelling.
Across the intervening years came a flash of remembrance. These must be
the celebrated coverts of his neighbor, Sir Claude Asprey, and the house
ahead must be the keeper's cottage where, when an Eton boy spending the
holidays with his uncle at Prior's Tarrant, he had lunched as a member
of Sir Claude's shooting-party ten years ago. The place was graven on
his memory, because the day was a red-letter one by reason of his having
shot his first pheasant thereon.
Without any definite plan in his head, but actuated by a longing for
human companionship, however brief, he went up to the door of the
cottage and knocked, his arrival being also heralded by the barking of
dogs at the side of the house. The door was almost immediately thrown
open by a stalwart, ruddy-faced man of sixty, who carried a candle and
stared in open-mouthed wonder at a well-dressed visitor at such an hour
and place. Beaumanoir looked at him closely, and smiled his first smile
of pleasure since Forsyth's hand had gripped his on the day he landed.
"I can see you've forgotten me, Mayne," he said, "though I should have
known you anywhere--time has touched you so slightly. Don't you
recollect young Charley Hanbury, who came over with the Duke of
Beaumanoir to a big shoot with Sir Claude in '91?"
A gleam shone in the honest keeper's keen eyes. "Of course I remember,
sir," he replied, adding quickly: "Begging your Grace's pardon, for
you'll be the Duke yourself now?'
"Yes, I am the Duke, Mayne, and a very unfortunate one," Beaumanoir
laughed. "There has been a mild sort of smash-up on the railway yonder,
and I started to walk to Prior's Tarrant rather than hang about for a
relief train. I was a bit hazy about my direction, so I thought I'd
inquire, and at the same time reassure you that it wasn't a poacher who
was abroad in the woods. May I come in while you give me my bearings?"
"Come in, your Grace, and welcome; but it isn't in my house that I shall
direct you. It's not likely that I'm going to let you wander about my
woods on a dark night when I can guide you out of them myself and think
it an honor," was the keeper's cordially respectful reply.
Beaumanoir was conscious that standing in a lighted doorway was hardly
the place for him just then, and he followed into a roomy kitchen,
professionally eloquent with its array of guns and sporting prints.
Mayne explained that his wife had just gone up to bed, and that all the
youngsters, whom perhaps it might please his Grace to remember, were out
in the world.
Beaumanoir dropped into a chair, and to gratify his kindly host accepted
a horn tankard of home-brewed ale, which he sipped while he satisfied
Mayne's curiosity about the "accident." He would have given much to take
the keeper into his confidence about the personal element in the
outrage, but that luxury could not be indulged in without impossible
disclosures. Considering that he had eliminated the most pertinent part
of his narrative, he was unable to account for the growing gravity with
which it was received till Mayne disburdened himself.
"I wonder your Grace can take your narrow escape so lightly," said the
keeper. "Providence must have been in two minds about you to-night."
"How so?" asked the Duke, starting. Surely General Sadgrove had not been
spreading indiscreet reports in the county already. There had not been
time.
"It isn't a fortnight since his Grace your uncle and your cousin were
killed on the railway," replied the keeper.
The coincidence had not occurred to Beaumanoir, nor if it had would it
have troubled him; but he was relieved to find that Mayne's solemnity
was due to the traditional superstition of a gamekeeper. To have his
terrible secret, or so much as a hint of it, suspected by this cheery
old associate of the happiest day of his boyhood would have been a blow
indeed.
"Yes," he admitted, though in a different sense; "I have certainly had a
narrow escape, and it has shaken me a little, Mayne. On second thoughts,
if you would let me lie down for a few hours on that very comfortable
settle, I would defer my departure for Prior's Tarrant till the morning.
I really don't feel quite equal to trudging so far to-night."
This was true enough, for though he was physically fit he dreaded
leaving this haven of rest and apparent security for the darkling wood,
in which his remorseless foes were probably searching for him. The
promised escort of the unsuspecting keeper would be of little value,
for, unwarned of any peril, the man would be simply an encumbrance,
equally liable with himself to swift death at any moment at the hands of
the enormous odds against them. Apart from other considerations, he
could not subject the good fellow to such a risk, though he would have
preferred, had it been possible to proceed alone, to have got to Prior's
Tarrant that night and so have ended the suspense under which Forsyth
and the General must be laboring.
Of course the proposal was hailed with delight, Mayne only insisting
that he should wake his wife and get her to prepare the spare bedroom.
Of this, however, Beaumanoir would not hear, and he was trying to
persuade his host to retire for the night when a dog barked furiously at
the back of the house.
"That's old Tear'em; there'll be someone moving," said Mayne, going out
into the passage and listening intently.
Beaumanoir remained in the kitchen, but for all that it was he, with his
highly strung nerves, who was the first to catch the sound of a footstep
without--a stealthy footstep, not approaching the cottage door boldly,
but creeping close to the window. The next instant, however, before he
could communicate with Mayne, another and a brisker step, without any
attempt at secrecy, crunched on the pebble path, and there came a tap at
the cottage door. Mayne immediately opened it.
"Sorry to disturb you, but there has been a railway accident," a man
said in tones that struck Beaumanoir as vaguely familiar. "I'm tired of
waiting about at the side of the line. Can you give me shelter for the
night?"
"If you'll please to walk in, sir, I'll see what can be done," came the
reply of the hospitable keeper. "I've got one of the passengers in here
already."
The next moment there appeared in the doorway of the kitchen the tall
man who had hectored the guard at Elstree station and who had afterwards
been joined by the spy, Marker, at Radlett. Whatever his purpose, he was
plainly not disposed to lay aside his air of self-importance as yet. He
glanced superciliously at Beaumanoir, and promptly appropriated the
chair which the latter had risen from at the first alarm. Loyal to his
own county, this was more than Mayne could stand; he hastened to effect
a one-sided introduction.
"Beg pardon, sir, but you've taken the Duke's chair," he said. "This
gentleman is his Grace the Duke of Beaumanoir."
The newcomer rose with alacrity. "Sorry, I'm sure," he said, taking
another seat. "We are companions in misfortune, Duke, if, as I
understand, you were traveling in that wretched 8.45 from St. Pancras."
Beaumanoir's sense of humor, ever present, but of late repressed by
stress of circumstances, broke out at the efforts of this man, who spoke
with a pronounced American accent, and who, he was persuaded, was there
with murderous intent, to sustain the _role_ of an English gentleman. He
had not forgotten that other and more furtive footstep under the window,
but he could not resist the sport of leading this rascal on. The mood
had seized him to avoid being killed if he could; but, if that were not
possible, to extract all available fun out of the process. And it might
serve either of these contingencies to lead his adversary into the
belief that he was not being imposed on by all this specious posing.
"Yes, I was in the 8.45," he replied, looking the other squarely in the
face. "You joined it at Elstree, I think. I noticed you because a man
who was found under the seat of my compartment got into yours at
Radlett, and I saw you leaving the train with him after the accident."
For the fraction of a second the man failed to control the answering
defiance of his eyes, but he got a grip of himself soon enough to
prevent a premature explosion. "Really?" he said, with affected
carelessness. "He was under the seat, eh? Funny sort of person to be
traveling first-class; but, of course, you will understand that I am not
acquainted with him."
Beaumanoir made no comment. He had got what he wanted. That sudden
tell-tale gleam of menace had discounted the subsequent disclaimer, and
he knew that this man had been no chance fellow-passenger with Marker,
the spy. What was more, the man knew that he knew it, and Beaumanoir
shrewdly guessed that the effort of control was intended to deceive not
him but the keeper. The rascal was biding his time till he had learned
what dispositions were to be made for the night, when doubtless he would
shape his actions accordingly; and, in the meanwhile, it was necessary
to his purpose that Sir Claude Asprey's honest old retainer should
regard him as an innocent guest.
Again that persistent reliance on the Duke's impotence to speak up and
boldly claim protection. All through the hot pursuit that leaguered him
so closely this was the bitterest drop in Beaumanoir's cup, for it was
he himself who had placed the gag in his own mouth, he himself who had
forged the fetters that kept him from running to Scotland Yard with an
exposure of the whole conspiracy. And it is galling to be hampered by a
past lapse from virtue when you have abandoned evil courses and are like
to lose your life for doing so.
"Now that this gentleman has come in your Grace will _have_ to have the
spare bedroom," said Mayne triumphantly, moving towards the door. "The
wife will have it ready for you in a brace of shakes."
Beaumanoir detained him with a hasty gesture. "One minute," he said,
"I'm not at all sure that I care about having the bedroom. I had
arranged to sleep downstairs on the settle, you know. Why shouldn't we
adhere to that plan, and let this gentleman have the room?"
He was moved to discover which of the two sleeping-places his enemies
would prefer him to occupy, and also by the imperative need of gaining
time to gauge the altered circumstances. Moreover, if Mayne went
upstairs to consult his wife he would be left alone with this great
strapping potential assassin, who as like as not would promptly admit
half a dozen other assassins from outside. Strangely enough, it was the
potential assassin himself who solved his dilemma--by tossing a
visiting-card on to the table.
"I shouldn't dream of sleeping in the bedroom while you are roughing it
down here, your Grace," he said. "I shall certainly insist on occupying
the settle."
Beaumanoir picked up the card and read:
Colonel Anstruther Walcot,
14th Dragoon Guards.
The sight of that card, for all his imminent danger, cheered him, as
showing that his opponents were not infallible. Not only had they made
the initial blunder of furnishing this obvious Yankee with the outward
semblance and name of an English officer commanding a distinguished
regiment, relying on the fact that the real owner of the name was in
India, but they had chanced to select the name of the colonel of
Beaumanoir's old regiment.
The impostor's card inspired him with an idea. He would accept him at
his own valuation.
"Very well," he said, rising from his chair. "As I am the first comer,
perhaps it is right that I should be first served. I'll take the
bedroom, Mayne; but there's no need to disturb your wife. If you'll show
me up we'll soon put the room to rights. Good-night, sir, and thank you
for your courtesy."
With which he signed to the keeper to lead the way and followed him out,
casting a glance at the American to see how he took the arrangement.
Diagnosis of the man's face was, however, impossible, for he had already
turned to the window and was drawing aside the curtain--to signal to his
fellows, Beaumanoir had no doubt.
Mayne mounted the steep cottage staircase, Beaumanoir limping awkwardly
in his wake into one of two rooms on the tiny landing. The moment they
had crossed the threshold he perceived that the chamber was little
better than a trap. The man downstairs would simply have him at his
mercy, after admitting his companions and probably screwing up the door
of the keeper's sleeping apartment. Locks and bolts to the primitive
doors there were none. He recognized all too late that it would have
been better to have insisted on the Yankee occupying this room and on
remaining downstairs himself, when he would at least have formed a wedge
between the traitor in the camp and his colleagues outside.
To stay the night in the room was out of the question, and he determined
to put in practice the inspiration derived from "Colonel Walcot's" card.
"Mayne," he said, laying his hand on the astonished keeper's shoulder,
"I must get out of this at once, without the gentleman below being aware
of it, and you must help me."
"But, your Grace----" began Mayne.
"Don't withstand me," Beaumanoir cut short the protest. "I cannot go
into a long explanation, but it's like this. That man is the colonel of
my former regiment--an old brother officer, you understand. My name was
Hanbury then, and he either does not, or pretends not to, recognize me.
It is not a nice thing to have to confess, but I borrowed money in those
days from Colonel Walcot, which never till now have I had it in my power
to repay. It would distress me greatly to have that money mentioned
before I have repaid it, as I shall do to-morrow, so if you can contrive
to let me out without his knowledge I'll make for Prior's Tarrant and
never forget your assistance."
Mayne scratched his grizzled head in pained perplexity. To his slow
brain the incident of a wealthy nobleman fleeing in the dead of night
from a creditor presented a startling incongruity, but gradually it
recurred to him that he had heard that the new Duke had been "a bit
wild" when in the army; and, after all, his reluctance to be recognized
by the Colonel till he had had time to liquidate the debt seemed but
natural.
"Yes, it can be done, your Grace," replied the keeper, softly opening
the lattice casement. "The lean-to roof of the woodshed reaches right up
here, and there's a pile of faggots against the shed. You can get down
easy enough, and as it's the back of the house, if you are careful, he
won't know anything about it. But I'll come, too, and show your Grace
the way out of the wood."
"On no account, Mayne," said Beaumanoir quickly. "You'll be much more
useful here. I'll find my way out of the wood all right, but you must go
back to the kitchen and tell Colonel Walcot that I am going to bed. It's
only a white lie, and here's a five-pound note on account of it. Stay
with him as long as you can--half an hour at least--and then go to bed
yourself."
"Very well, your Grace; I don't like it, but I'll do it."
"And see here, Mayne: there's one thing more. In the morning, or
whenever Colonel Walcot discovers that I have gone away, tell him from
me why I went, and that I intend to repay him all I owe him. _All I owe
him_, don't forget that."
Directly he was alone Beaumanoir left himself no time for weighing the
chances, but took the risk. Squeezing through the window, he climbed
down the sloping roof of the woodshed and thence by way of the
faggot-pile to the ground. He was well aware that every step, as he
groped his way across the clearing into the thicket, might be his last,
for doubtless he had been traced to the cottage and the whole pack were
somewhere about. His only hope lay in the probability that they were in
front of the house, where they could hold themselves ready to obey
signals from the kitchen window or a summons from the door.
It might have been that this was the case, for Beaumanoir reached the
trees without interference, and at once shaped a course for the edge of
the wood. His progress was difficult by reason of the darkness and the
density of the undergrowth, but fortune favored him in so far that he
presently hit upon a public foot-path, and so came eventually to a stile
giving on a high road. At the next cross-ways was a sign-post, which he
read by the light of a wax match, and thence onward limped steadily
forward for Prior's Tarrant, with growing confidence that he had eluded
pursuit.
Great, then, was his dismay when, on turning into his own park, he
became conscious that he was being shadowed by someone whose stealthy
pid-pad sounded resolutely behind him. As he mounted the terrace steps
it grew louder; the man who was following him was close behind and
gaining quickly. Something in the Duke's tired brain seemed to snap, and
with just a glance at the lighted window of the dining-room where
General Sadgrove was in the act of drawing up the blind, he turned at
the top of the steps and flung himself, half mad with rage and terror,
on the faithful Azimoolah, who had picked him up near the sign-post and
shepherded him safely for the rest of the journey.