Gerald Brooke having relieved his "mate" Lucas at the signal-box, and
having satisfied himself that his lamps were properly trimmed and set
for the night, sat down in his box to read. The night duties at Cinder
Pit Junction were not of a very onerous nature. The last passenger
train from Cummerhays, which also carried the mail, passed at
eight-thirty; and the last train to that place till the arrival of the
morning mail, at a few minutes past ten o'clock. In the course of the
night two or three trains of mixed merchandise and minerals passed
through without stopping, and these, together with a train from the
collieries bound for the South, comprised the whole of the nocturnal
traffic. Thus it fell out that Gerald had plenty of spare time on his
hands, and always brought a volume with him to help to while the long
dark hours away.
The signal-box, the entrance to which was reached by a flight of eight
or nine steps, stood on a small space of cleared ground by the side of
the line. A little way back was a low embankment crowned by a hedge,
overshadowed here and there by an umbrageous beech or elm, beyond
which the open fields stretched far and wide. Few places could be more
solitary and deserted; not a house, not a habitation of any kind was
within ken; but by day a haze of smoke in the distance told of life
and labour not far away.
The last train from Cummerhays had passed more than an hour ago, the
next one would be the train going the reverse way. Gerald sat reading,
but with his ear on the alert for the ting of the telegraph bell which
should tell him when the coming train had passed Mellingfield, the
nearest station south, five miles away. All at once he was startled by
the sound of some one coughing, evidently just outside his box. It was
a sound so unexpected and surprising in that lonely spot and at that
hour of the night, that he sprang to his feet, while his nerves began
to flutter strangely. Next moment there came a loud rapping at the
door, as it might be with the handle of a walking-stick. Gerald opened
the door at once; and then he saw a portly middle-aged man dressed in
black, with a white cravat and spectacles--to all appearance a
clergyman--standing at the foot of the steps and gazing blandly up at
him.
"My good man," said the stranger in unctuous but well-bred accents, "I
am a stranger in these parts, and am sorry to say that I have lost my
way. I want to get to a friend's house at Overbarrow; no doubt you can
put me in the right road for doing so?"
You must cross the line"--began Gerald.
"My good man," interrupted the stranger, "I am somewhat deaf, and
cannot hear what you say. I wish you would be good enough to come a
little nearer. With my defective eyesight, I dare not trust myself up
these steps of yours."
Gerald stepped down without hesitation. "You must cross the line," he
began again in a somewhat louder key, "and about twenty yards farther
on you will find a gap in the hedge."
"Yes, yes--a gap in the hedge; I understand," responded the other
eagerly.
"And after that you will find a footpath which will bring you to the
high-road. Then"----
Not a word more spoke Gerald. A soft heavy cloth of some kind was
suddenly thrown over his head, while at the same instant his arms were
pinioned firmly from behind, and a cord with a running noose was drawn
tightly round his legs. The attack was so sudden that he was powerless
to make the least resistance, and in less than half-a-dozen seconds he
found himself as helpless as a babe. Then a corner of the cloth that
enveloped his head was raised and the sham parson said in his most
oily tones: "My friend, if you have any regard for your life you will
neither cry out nor attempt to make the least disturbance. Be obedient
and good, and no harm shall befall you." As if to add emphasis to the
warning, Gerald was lightly rapped on the knuckles with what he could
feel to be the chilly barrel of a pistol. Then with a man on each side
of him holding him by an arm, he was conducted to the background; and
having been planted with his back to a tree, he was bound firmly to it
with several folds of thin cord. The cloth which still enveloped his
head was fastened loosely round his throat, so as not greatly to
impede his breathing; but his voice would have been smothered in it
had he even been in a position to call for help.
He had no means of ascertaining the number of his assailants, but as
far as he could judge there must have been three or four of them. He
was lost in a maze of the wildest conjectures as to what the object of
the attack could possibly be. Apparently none of the gang had
recognised him as Gerald Brooke, the man for whose capture so large a
reward was still unclaimed. Yet why, then, had they made him a
prisoner? What object was to be gained by his capture? Never in his
life had he felt so utterly perplexed. He could hear an eager
conversation going on a little distance away; but all sounds now came
dull and muffled to his ears.
As already stated, the gang had previously separated into two parties.
Three of the men, at the head of whom was Crofton, had made their way
down the branch to a point close to where, as nearly as they could
judge, the driver of the train would be able to pull up as soon as he
found himself on the wrong line of rails. The other three men, with
the sham parson as their chief, had been detailed for the capture of
the signalman, the result of which we have seen. After a little talk
together, one of the three now started off down the branch to carry
the news to Crofton and the others.
Slinkey at once took possession of the box, and proceeded to test the
working of the various levers, in order that there might be no hitch
when the critical moment should arrive. He was an ex-railway servant
and thoroughly understood what he was now about.
The sham parson was known familiarly among the "profession" which his
eminent talents adorned under the pseudonym of "Lardy Bill," a title
conferred upon him in the first instance by reason of his fondness for
swell clothes, flash jewelry, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs. He was
one of the most clever and unscrupulous rogues of which the great
Babylon could boast; but it is pleasant to be able to record that
despite his cleverness, a considerable portion of his knavish
existence had already been passed in an enforced seclusion where board
and lodging had been provided him free of charge. His appearance was
eminently in his favour. He was a well-built, ruddy-cheeked man, with
a moist and humorous eye, and a sort of hail-fellow-well-met air. He
had the suggestion of a man who could tell a good story and appreciate
a good glass of wine. He looked equally at home when made up as a
clergyman, a gentleman farmer, a staid City magnate, or a poor
tradesman who had fallen upon evil days. He had always _les larmes
dans le voix_ at command when the occasion needed them, and he could
choke a sob in his throat as cleverly as any low comedian on the
stage.
As soon as the two men were left alone, with their prisoner in the
background, Lardy Bill lighted a cigarette--he liked to follow the
fashion in everything--and began to stroll up and down the narrow
clearing on which the box was built. Slinkey was too nervous to follow
his companion's example. "As I calkilate," he said, "we ought to have
had the signal from Mellingfield three minutes afore now. Can anything
have happened?"
"Pooh, man--what is likely to have happened?" said the other coolly.
"These beggarly branch trains are nearly always late."
Half a minute later they heard the welcome ting-ting announcing that
the train had just passed Melling field.
"She'll be twelve minutes or more yet afore she's here," remarked
Slinkey as he again ascended the steps and entered the box.
Presently Lardy Bill tossed away the end of his cigarette, and
crossing to his prisoner, examined his bonds and satisfied himself
that they were still intact. On going back to the box he was rejoined
by Slinkey, who now proceeded to go down on one knee and rest his ear
on the rail. "She's coming; I can hear her quite plain," he said after
a few moments. "Another five minutes and she ought to be here."
"Then I'll hurry off to the others," said Lardy. "I shall be wanted
there when the shindy comes off, and you'll manage here by yourself
all right."
"Right you are," responded the other. "As soon as ever the train's
past, I shall cut the wires, and then make a bolt of it, and wait for
you fellows at the cottage."
Nothing more was said. Lardy Bill started at a quick pace down the
branch, while Slinkey re-entered the box.
Neither of them had the slightest suspicion that for the last ten
minutes or more all their actions had been watched by an unseen
witness; but such was the case. When Clara Brooke, to her intense
dismay, discovered that not her husband, but a stranger, was the
occupant of the box, she felt for a little while as if her heart must
die within her. Then she became aware of two dusky figures standing a
little distance away, whom she rightly concluded to be other members
of the gang; but still her husband was nowhere to be seen. She had
arrived on the spot almost immediately after Gerald had been bound to
the tree; but the night was too dark to admit of her seeing him from
that distance. She felt at once that she must get round to where the
signal-box stood, on the opposite side of the line, and, if it were
possible, approach near enough to the men to overhear their
conversation, and by that means discover what had become of her
husband. No sooner was the thought formulated in her mind than she
began to put it into practice. Still keeping in the shelter of the
hedge that ran parallel with the line, she sped as fast as her feet
could carry her to a point some forty or fifty yards farther down the
line, far enough, as she judged, to be out of the range of vision of
any one who might be on the lookout at the box. Here, after drawing
her shawl over her head--she had discarded her bonnet some time
before--she broke through the hedge, was across the line in three
seconds; and then, after pushing through the hedge on the opposite
side, she turned back in the direction of the signal-box, she and it
being both now on the same side of the line. Creeping forward foot by
foot and yard by yard, she presently found herself a little way behind
the box, and within a dozen yards of her husband, had she only been
aware of it.
While this was happening, one of the men had gone off to join the
others down the line. Clara, peering through the interstices of the
hedge, could see the two remaining men walking and talking together,
but was too far away to distinguish what they said. Not long had she
watched and waited when she heard the ting-ting of the telegraph bell.
She knew that it was a signal of some kind, but not what its precise
meaning might be. Then one of the men disappeared into the box, while
the other--it was the one, she could now make out, who was dressed
like a clergyman--turned, and seemed as if he were marching directly
towards her. Terror-stricken, she dropped completely out of sight
behind the hedge-bank, expecting every moment to feel a hand laid on
her shoulder. But nothing coming, she breathed again; then her head
went up till her eyes were on a level with the top of the bank; then,
to her surprise, she saw that the man seemed to be carefully examining
the trunk of a tree some little distance away. She strained her eyes
in the endeavour to see what he could possibly be about, and then
suddenly her heart gave a great bound. The trunk of the tree was
defined like a faint silhouette against a background of starlit April
sky, but it was a silhouette which in one portion of its outline bore
a startling resemblance to a human figure. As by a flash of
divination, Clara knew that it was her husband she was gazing upon.
Her breath fluttered on her lips like a bird trying to escape, and she
set her teeth hard in the flesh of her arm, to stifle the cry that
broke involuntarily from her heart.
After a few seconds the man went back; and after saying a few words to
his confederate, he apparently took leave of him, and starting down
the branch, was quickly lost to view; then the other at once went back
into the box. Now was Clara's opportunity.
Half a minute later she was by her husband's side. Laying a hand
softly on his arm, she said in a low voice: "Gerald it is I--Clara."
Some smothered sounds came back to her; and then she discovered, what
the darkness had hitherto hidden, that her husband's head and face
were closely muffled. Her trembling but skilful fingers quickly undid
the knots and removed the covering. Gerald gave a great gasp of relief
as he drew a deep inspiration of the cool night-air. Then he
whispered: "You will find a knife in my outside pocket." In a minute
from that time he was a free man.
Slinkey, waiting alone in the signal-box, had tried the lever again
and again by means of which the points were opened that would turn the
train on to the branch, and had satisfied himself that everything was
in working order. Both the distance and the home signal-lamps showed
the white light, so that the train would speed on unsuspectingly with
unslackened pace. Slinkey at the best of times was a nervous timid
creature--a man who walked ever in trembling dread of the hand which
he knew would some day be laid suddenly on his shoulder--but now that
he was left alone, now that he had no longer Lardy Bill's audacious
bulldog courage to help to animate his own, his craven heart sank
lower and lower, and he would have given a year of his life to be well
out of the adventure into which he had allowed himself to be seduced.
The low deep hum of the oncoming train grew palpably on the ear.
Instinctively, Slinkey's hand closed on lever No. 3, while his heart
began to beat a sort of devil's tattoo after a fashion that was far
from comfortable. Suddenly he gave a great start, and for a moment or
more the tattoo came to a dead stop. He had heard a sound that he
remembered full well: it was the noise caused by the explosion of a
fog-signal. At the same instant the engine began to whistle its
shrillest. Then came the explosion of a second signal, and then the
whistle ceased as suddenly as it began. And now he could faintly hear
the soft rhythmical pulsing of the engine, as it might be that of some
antediluvian monster till it was scant of breath; and Slinkey knew that
the train had slackened speed and was feeling its way forward slowly
and cautiously. What could be the matter? What could have happened? By
whom and with what intent had fog-signals been placed on the line on a
night so clear and beautiful?
Such were a few of the queries that flitted through Slinkey's puzzled
brain. And now not even the faintest pulsing of the engine could be
heard. Could it be possible that treachery was at work, and that the
driver had been warned and the train brought to a stand? Slinkey ran
lightly down the steps and, kneeling, laid an ear once more to the
rails. Not a sound came to him; the train and those in charge of it
might have vanished into space, so unbroken was the silence. He got on
his feet again, his tongue and throat as dry and constricted as those
of a man who had been athirst for days. Instinctively his eyes turned
to the tree to which the captured signalman had been bound; but he was
too far away to be able to discern whether the man was still there.
With a heart that misgave him, he hurried up to the tree, only to find
that the prisoner had escaped. The cords were there, but the man was
gone. Evidently, treachery was at work somewhere. Would not the wisest
thing he could do be to decamp while he had a chance of doing so? He
was asking himself this question but had not answered it, when up came
Crofton, Lardy Bill, and one of the other men, at double-quick time.
They, too, had heard the fog-signals, and had been as much at a loss
to account for them as Slinkey had been. But when the latter told them
that by some mysterious means their prisoner had contrived to escape,
it was evident both to Crofton and Lardy that their carefully planned
scheme had met with some dire mishap. They had been betrayed, but by
whom? A traitor had been at work, but who was he? Each of them stared
suspiciously at his fellows.
"If I only knew who it was that bad sold us," said Lardy Bill with a
fierce imprecation, "I'd scatter his brains with a bullet, though I
had to swing for it after!"
"That's all very well," said Crofton; "but the question is, what are
we to do now?"
"Do!" exclaimed Lardy, whom danger always made reckless. "Why, do what
we intended from the first. The train's waiting there, ain't it, not
five hundred yards away? Instead of its coming to us, we must go to
it--that's all. Is there any one here," he demanded fiercely, "who
would rather not go?"
Slinkey would fain have answered that he for one would very much
prefer to keep in the background, only that Lardy Bill was a man of
whom he stood in mortal fear.
"Now, mates, come along," added Bill. "We are only fooling away our
time standing here. One bold stroke and the prize is ours."
Scarcely had the last word passed his lips, when some half-dozen
dark-coated figures burst suddenly through the hedge and made a dash
into the midst of the gang.
"We are sold!" screamed Crofton with an oath. "Every man for himself;"
and with that he fired his revolver at the nearest of his assailants
and then turned to flee. But he was too late. He was tripped up,
seized, and handcuffed all in a breath as it seemed. A like fate
befell Slinkey and the other man; but Lardy Bill, slippery as an eel,
after felling two of his assailants, vanished in the darkness. The
remaining two men, who had been left behind when Crofton and the
others hurried to the signal-box, also contrived to escape.
Crofton's shot had taken effect. The man he fired at staggered forward
a pace or two and then fell on one knee. Now that the scrimmage was
over, his companions had time to attend to him. They helped him to his
feet; he was evidently suffering great pain, but was perfectly cool
and collected. As the light of the bull's-eye which one of the men
produced fell upon his face, Crofton, who was close at hand, staggered
back with a cry of amazement Next moment he had recovered himself.
"I denounce this man as Gerald Brooke," he exclaimed, "the murderer of
Baron von Rosenberg, for whose capture a reward of three hundred
pounds is offered."