The Chase in the Woods
In earlier days, Michael Clifton had been reckoned among the more
creditable runners in the School Mile; and he had never allowed
himself to fall out of training. Thus as he joined the throng of
would-be pursuers emerging from the house, he felt a certain
confidence that the fugitive would at any rate have to put his best
foot foremost if he was to avoid being run down. Before he had covered
twenty yards, however, Michael found himself handicapped by his
costume. The full-bottomed wig dropped off almost immediately, and the
shoes were not so troublesome as he had feared; but the sleeves of his
coat interfered with his movements, and the long skirts hampered his
legs.
“I wonder if these coves in the eighteenth century ever ran a step,”
he grumbled. “If they did it in this kit, they must have been wonders.
I must get rid of the truck.”
He pulled up and stripped off the full-skirted coat; then, as an
after-thought, he removed the long waistcoat as well. While doing
this, he glanced ahead to see how the chase was progressing. The light
of the full moon, now at its highest in the cloudless heavens, lit up
the whole landscape before him almost as clearly as daylight. Far
ahead, he could see the white figure of the escaping thief as it
ascended the long, gentle slope towards the pine-woods.
“I wonder what tempted the beggar to choose that particular costume on
a night like this,” Michael speculated. “It’s the most conspicuous
affair he could have put on. Well, all the better for us.”
The quarry had evidently secured a fair start, for the nearest group
of pursuers was still a considerable distance behind him. The hunters
were strung out in an irregular file, knotted here and there with
groups of three or four runners; and the line extended back almost to
Michael’s position. Behind him, he could hear fresh reinforcements
emerging from the house, shouting as they came.
“They’d better save their breath,” Michael commented critically to
himself. “That long rise’ll take it out of a good many of them.”
He settled down to his favourite stride; and very soon began to
overtake the laggards at the tail of the chase. In front of him
he saw a Cardinal Richelieu with kilted cassock; but the Cardinal
found his costume too much for him and pulled out of the race as
Michael passed him. Shortly after, Michael drew level with an early
nineteenth-century dandy and for a few seconds they raced neck and
neck. The dandy, however, was unable to stay the pace.
“It’s these damned Johnny Walker boots,” he gasped, as he fell behind.
Michael, running comfortably, began to take a faint amusement in the
misfortunes of his colleagues. He could not help smiling as he passed
a Minotaur, sitting beside the track and making furious efforts to
disentangle himself from his pasteboard bull’s head which seemed to
have become clamped in position. But as he found two more of the
hunters by the wayside, a fresh point of view occurred to him.
“If they’re going to drop out at this rate, there won’t be many of us
left at the finish to tackle the beggar; and he’s armed. We’ll need
all the men we can scrape up, if we’re to make sure of him.”
Glancing ahead again, he was relieved to see that he had gained a fair
amount of ground on the fugitive; and now he began to pass runner
after runner, as the rising slope told on the weaker pursuers. He
reached the group at the head of the chase just as the escaping
burglar dashed into the shadow of the woods a hundred yards in
advance.
“He’ll dodge us now, if he can,” Michael warned his companions, who
evidently were unacquainted with the ground. “Keep your eyes on him at
any cost.”
But as they entered the pine arcades, Michael found that he was
mistaken. The quarry maintained his lead; but he made no effort to
leave the beaten track. Ahead of them they could see his white-clad
figure dappled with light and darkness as he sped up the broad
pathway.
Suddenly, Michael remembered what lay beyond the pine-wood. Without
raising his voice, for fear the runner in front should hear him, he
explained the situation.
“He doesn’t know what he’s running into. There’s a big quarry up
there, with barbed wire fences on each side. If we can keep him
straight for it, we’ll have him pinned.”
On went the fugitive, still maintaining his lead and glancing over his
shoulder from time to time, as though he were gauging the distance
which separated him from his closest pursuers.
“The beggar can run, certainly,” Michael admitted to himself. “But
running isn’t going to help him much in a minute or two. We have him
on toast.”
In a few moments the moon shone bright through the trees ahead. As
they reached the edge of the wood, the white figure in front of them
showed up clearly as it sprinted across the strip of open ground,
straight for the spinney which bounded the quarry cliff. With a
gesture, Michael called his motley group to a halt.
“Wait a minute,” he ordered. “You, Mephistopheles, get off to the left
there, outside the spinney. Go on until you strike barbed wire. Take
this Prehistoric Man—oh, it’s you, is it, Frankie? Well, both of you
get down there and act as stoppers, so that he can’t sneak off along
the fence. Oliver Cromwell and you in the funny coat! You’re to do the
same over yonder on the right. Put some hurry into it, now! And don’t
move in towards him till you get the word. The rest of you, extend a
bit along the near edge of the spinney. Not too close; give yourselves
a chance of spotting him if he breaks cover. And don’t yell unless you
actually see him. We’ve got him shut in now, and we can afford to wait
for reinforcements. Here they come!”
Two panting runners breasted the hill as he spoke. At this moment
there came from beyond the spinney the sound of a splash. Michael was
taken aback.
“The beggar can’t have dived over, surely. It’s full of rocks down
below. We’ll have to hurry up. He might get away, after all, if he’s
extra lucky.”
A fresh group of pursuers gave him the reinforcements he needed; and
he fed them into his cordon at its weak points.
“Pass the word for the whole line to close in!”
The cordon began to contract around the spinney, the wide gaps in it
closing up as it advanced.
“The beggar’s probably got a pistol; look out for yourselves among the
trees,” Michael cautioned them as they reached the boundary of the
plantation. “Don’t hurry. And keep in touch, whatever you do.”
He himself was at the centre of the line and was the first to enter
the tiny wood. The advance was slow; for here there was some
undergrowth which might offer a hiding-place to the fugitive; and this
was carefully scrutinized, clump by clump, before the line moved
forward as a whole. Michael meant to make certain of capturing the
burglar; and he could afford now to go about the matter deliberately.
Fresh reinforcements in twos and threes were still streaming in from
the pine-wood.
It took only a few minutes, however, to draw his screen through the
spinney; for the belt of trees was a narrow one. Every instant he
expected to hear a shout indicating that the quarry had been run to
earth; but none came. His line emerged intact from the trees, forming
an arc of which the cliff-face was the chord; and as his men came out
into the moonlight Michael had to admit to himself that no one could
well have crept through any gap in the cordon.
“He must be out here, hiding among these seats,” he shouted. “Don’t
break your line any more than you can help. Advance to that balustrade
in front. Rush him, if he shows up.”
Now that he was sure of his quarry, Michael at last had leisure to
note the tincture of the bizarre in the scene before him. The
high-riding moon whitened the terrace and touched with glamour the
motley costumes of the hunters preparing for their final swoop. Here
Robin Hood and a hatless Flying Dutchman were stooping to peer below
one of the marble seats. Farther along the line Lohengrin and a
Milkman discussed something eagerly in whispers. On the left the
Prehistoric Man loomed up like a Troglodyte emerging from his cave;
while beyond him Mephistopheles leaned upon the railing, scanning the
water below. From the inky shadow of the spinney Felix the Cat stole
softly out to join the cordon.
“A weird-looking gang we are,” Michael commented to himself as he
gazed about him.
Only a few steps separated the hunters from the clear floor of the
terrace. In a second or two at most, the man they were chasing must
break cover and make a dash for liberty or else tamely surrender.
Slowly the line crept forward.
“We’ve got him now!” a voice cried, exultantly.
But the living net swept on past the marble tier without catching
anything in its meshes. Between it and the balustrade was nothing but
the untenanted paving of the terrace.
“He’s got away!” ejaculated some one in tones of complete amazement.
“Well, I’m damned if I see how he managed it.”
The chain broke up into individuals, who hurried hither and thither on
the esplanade searching even in the most unlikely spots for the
missing fugitive. All at once Michael’s eye caught something which had
been concealed in the shadows thrown by the moon.
“Here’s a rope, you fellows! He’s gone down the face of the cliff.
Swum the lake, probably.”
Mephistopheles dissented in a languid drawl.
“Not he, Clifton. I’ve had my eye on the water ever since I got up to
the barbed wire. You could spot the faintest ripple in this moonshine.
He didn’t get off that way.”
“Sure of that?” demanded Michael.
“Dead sure. I watched specially.”
Michael hesitated for a moment or two, considering the situation. Then
his face cleared.
“I see it! I remember there’s a cave right below here, in the
cliff-face. He’s gone to ground there. Half of you get through the
barbed wire on the right; the rest take the left side. Line up on the
banks when you get down to the water. He may swim for it yet if we
don’t hurry.”
They raced off to carry out his instructions, while Michael pulled up
the rope and flung it on the terrace.
“That cuts off his escape in this direction,” he said to himself. “Now
we can dig him out at leisure.”
Without hurrying, he made his way down to the water.
“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout
it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much
bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for
he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.”
He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last
discovered the decrepit raft.
“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve
him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want some one to go with me. Here,
you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come
along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil
than the rest of us.”
Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which
sank ominously under the extra weight.
“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with
your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.”
Under this primitive method of propulsion, the progress of the raft
was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the
cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand.
Gradually they manœuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth,
which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned
forward to the entrance.
“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no
good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.”
There was no reply of any sort.
“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,”
expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black
as the pit, and I can see nothing.”
He pulled a silver match-box from his trousers pocket.
“Lucky I hadn’t this in my coat; for you don’t look as if you had a
pocket of any sort on you, Frankie.”
The first match, damped by the moisture on his hands, sputtered and
died out.
“_Hurry_ up, Guvnor,” shouted Mephistopheles, cheerfully, from the
bank. “Don’t keep us up all night with your firework display. It’s
getting a bit chilly, paddling about amongst this sedge. Not at all
the temperature I’m accustomed to at home.”
Michael felt for another match and lighted it successfully. Standing
up on the raft, he held the light above his head and peered into the
cavity in the rock. The Prehistoric Man heard him exclaim in
amazement.
“Damnation, Frankie! He’s not here! It’s hardly a cave at all.”
He put his hands on the cave floor.
“Hold tight with the raft. I’m going in to make sure.”
He scrambled up into the hollow; but almost immediately his face
appeared again in the moonlight.
“Nothing here. The hole’s barely big enough to take me in.”
“Then where’s he gone?” demanded the Prehistoric Man, who was a
creature of few words.
“I dunno! Must have given us the slip somehow. If he isn’t here, he
must be somewhere else. No getting round that.”
He shouted the news to the watchers on the banks; and a confused sound
of argument rose from amongst the sedge.
“Not much use hanging round the old home, Frankie. Pull for shore,
sailor. We’d best manhandle her along the face of the cliff. I’ve had
enough of that paddling.”
When they touched firm ground again they were surrounded by their
friends, most of whom seemed to doubt whether the search of the cave
had been properly carried out.
“I tell you,” declaimed the exasperated Michael, “I got right into the
damned hole! It’s so small that I nearly broke my nose against the
back wall as I heaved myself inside. It would have been a tight fit
for me and a squirrel together. He’s not there, whether you like it or
not. . . . I can’t help your troubles, Tommy; you can go and look for
yourself, if you like the job of lying on your tummy on a raft that’s
awash. I shan’t interfere with your simple pleasures.”
“But . . .”
“We’ve lost him. Is that plain enough? There’s nothing to be done but
go home again with our tails between our legs. I’m going now.”
He accompanied his friends to the top of the cliff again; but when he
reached the terrace a fresh thought struck him, and he loitered behind
while the others, soaked and disconsolate, made their way down into
the pine-wood. When the last of them had disappeared, Michael retraced
his steps to the edge of the cliff.
“He reached here all right,” he assured himself. “And he didn’t break
back through the cordon.”
He stooped down, picked up the rope, and refastened it round one of
the pillars of the balustrade.
“Every one knows there are secret passages about Ravensthorpe,” he
mused. “Perhaps this beggar has got on to one of them. And quite
possibly the end of the passage is in that cave down there. That would
explain the rope. I’ll slide down and have another look round.”
He got into the cave-mouth without difficulty and used up the
remainder of his matches in a close examination of the interior of the
cavity; but even the closest scrutiny failed to reveal anything to his
eyes.
“Nothing there but plain rock, so far as I can see,” he had to admit
to himself as the last match burned out. “That’s a blank end in more
senses than one.”
Without much difficulty he swarmed up the rope again, untied it from
the balustrade, and coiled it over his arm.
“A nice little clue for Sir Clinton Driffield to puzzle over,” he
assured himself. “Sherlock Holmes would have been on to it at once;
found where it was sold in no time; discovered who bought it before
five minutes had passed; and paralysed Watson with the whole story
that same evening over a pipeful of shag. We shall see.”
He threw a last glance round the empty terrace and then moved off
into the spinney. As he passed into the shadow of the trees he saw,
a few yards to one side, the outline of the Fairy House dappled
in the moonshine which filtered through the leaves overhead.
Half-unconsciously, Michael halted and looked at the little building.
“They could never have overlooked that in the hunt, surely. Well, no
harm in having a peep to make certain.”
He dropped his coil of rope, stepped across to the house, and,
stooping down, flung open the door. Inside, he caught a flash of some
white fabric.
“It’s the beggar after all! Here! Come out of that!”
He gripped the inmate roughly and hauled him by main force out of his
retreat.
“Pierrot costume, right enough!” he said to himself as he extracted
the man little by little from his refuge. Then, having got his victim
into the open:
“Now we’ll turn you over and have a look at your face . . . Good God!
Maurice!”
For as he turned the man on his back, it was the face of Maurice
Chacewater that met his eyes. But it was not a normal Maurice whom he
saw. The features were contorted by some excessive emotion the like of
which Michael had never seen.
“Let me alone, damn you,” Maurice gasped, and turned over once more on
his face, resting his brow on his arm as though to shut out the
spectacle of Michael’s astonishment.
“Are you ill?” Michael inquired, solicitously.
“For God’s sake leave me alone. Don’t stand there gaping. Clear out, I
tell you.”
Michael looked at him in amazement.
“I’m going to have a cheerful kind of brother-in-law before all’s
done, it seems,” he thought to himself.
“Can I do anything for you, Maurice?”
“Oh, go to hell!”
Michael turned away.
“It’s fairly clear he doesn’t like my company,” he reflected, as he
stepped across and picked up his coil of rope from the ground. “But
I’ve known politer ways of showing it, I must say.”
With a final glance at the prostrate figure of Maurice, he walked on
and took the road back to Ravensthorpe. But as he went a vision of
Maurice’s face kept passing before his mind’s eye.
“There’s something damned far wrong with that beggar, whether it’s an
evil conscience or cramp in the tummy. It might be either of them, by
the look of him. He didn’t seem to want any assistance from me. That
looks more like the evil conscience theory.”
He dismissed this with a laugh; but gradually he grew troubled.
“There he was, in white—same as the burglar. He’s in a bit of a bate
at being discovered, that’s clear enough. He didn’t half like it, to
judge by his chat.”
A discomforting hypothesis began to frame itself in his mind despite
his efforts to stifle it.
“He’s the fellow, if there is one, who would know all these secret
passages about here. Suppose there really is one leading out of that
cave. He could have swarmed down the rope, got into the cave, sneaked
up the subterranean passage, and got behind us that way.”
A fresh fact fitted suddenly in.
“And of course the other end of the passage may be in that Fairy
House! That would explain his being there. He’d be waiting to see us
off the premises before he could venture out in his white costume.”
He pondered over the problem as he hurried with long strides towards
the house.
“Well,” he concluded, “I’m taking no further steps in the business.
It’s no concern of mine to go probing into the private affairs of the
family I’m going to marry into. And that’s that.”
Then, as a fresh aspect of the matter came to his mind, he gave a sigh
of relief.
“I must be a stricken idiot! No man would ever dream of burgling his
own house. What would he gain by it, if he did? The thing’s
ridiculous.”
And the comfort which this view brought him was sufficient to lighten
his steps for the rest of his way.