AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
For several days Merriman, sick at heart and shaken in body, remained
on at Bordeaux, too numbed by the blow which had fallen on him to take
any decisive action. He now understood that Madeleine Coburn had
refused him because she loved him, and he vowed he would rest neither
day nor night till he had seen her and obtained a reversal of her
decision. But for the moment his energy had departed, and he spent his
time smoking in the Jardin and brooding over his troubles.
It was true that on three separate occasions he had called at the
manager’s house, only to be told that Mr. and Miss Coburn were still
from home, and neither there nor from the foreman at the works could he
learn their addresses or the date of their return. He had also written
a couple of scrappy notes to Hilliard, merely saying he was on a fresh
scent, and to make no move in the matter until he heard further. Of the
Pit-Prop Syndicate as apart from Madeleine he was now profoundly
wearied, and he wished for nothing more than never again to hear its
name mentioned.
But after a week of depression and self-pity his natural good sense
reasserted itself, and he began seriously to consider his position. He
honestly believed that Madeleine’s happiness could best be brought
about by the fulfilment of his own, in other words by their marriage.
He appreciated the motives which had caused her to refuse him, but he
hoped that by his continued persuasion he might be able, as he put it
to himself, to talk her round. Her very flight from him, for such he
believed her absence to be, seemed to indicate that she herself was
doubtful of her power to hold out against him, and to this extent he
drew comfort from his immediate difficulty.
He concluded before trying any new plan to call once again at the
clearing, in the hope that Mr. Coburn at least might have returned. The
next afternoon, therefore, saw him driving out along the now familiar
road. It was still hot, with the heavy enervating heat of air held
stagnant by the trees. The freshness of early summer had gone, and
there was a hint of approaching autumn in the darker greenery of the
firs, and the overmaturity of such shrubs and wild flowers as could
find along the edge of the road a precarious roothold on the patches of
ground not covered by pine needles. Merriman gazed unceasingly ahead at
the straight white ribbon of the road, as he pondered the problem of
what he should do if once again he should be disappointed in his quest.
Madeleine could not, he thought, remain indefinitely away. Mr. Coburn
at all events would have to return to his work, and it would be a
strange thing if he could not obtain from the father some indication of
his daughter’s whereabouts.
But his call at the manager’s house was as fruitless on this occasion
as on those preceding. The woman from whom he had received the note
opened the door and repeated her former statement. Mr. and Miss Coburn
were still from home.
Merriman turned away disconsolately, and walked slowly back across the
clearing and down the lane. Though he told himself he had expected
nothing from the visit, he was nevertheless bitterly disappointed with
its result. And worse than his disappointment was his inability to see
his next step, or even to think of any scheme which might lead him to
the object of his hopes.
He trudged on down the lane, his head sunk and his brows knitted, only
half conscious of his surroundings. Looking up listlessly as he rounded
a bend, he stopped suddenly as if turned to stone, while his heart
first stood still, then began thumping wildly as if to choke him. A few
yards away and coming to meet him was Madeleine!
She caught sight of him at the same instant and stopped with a low cry,
while an expression of dread came over her face. So for an appreciable
time they stood looking at one another, then Merriman, regaining the
power of motion, sprang forward and seized her hands.
“Madeleine! Madeleine!” he cried brokenly. “My own one! My beloved!” He
almost sobbed as he attempted to strain her to his heart.
But she wrenched herself from him.
“No, no!” she gasped. “You must not! I told you. It cannot be.”
He pleaded with her, fiercely, passionately, and at last despairingly.
But he could not move her. Always she repeated that it could not be.
“At least tell me this,” he begged at last. “Would you marry me if this
syndicate did not exist; I mean if Mr. Coburn was not mixed up with
it?”
At first she would not answer, but presently, overcome by his
persistence, she burst once again into tears and admitted that her fear
of disgrace arising through discovery of the syndicate’s activities was
her only reason for refusal.
“Then,” said Merriman resolutely, “I will go back with you now and see
Mr. Coburn, and we will talk over what is to be done.”
At this her eyes dilated with terror.
“No, no!” she cried again. “He would be in danger. He would try
something that might offend the others, and his life might not be safe.
I tell you I don’t trust Captain Beamish and Mr. Bulla. I don’t think
they would stop at anything to keep their secret. He is trying to get
out of it, and he must not be hurried. He will do what he can.”
“But, my dearest,” Merriman remonstrated, “it could do no harm, to talk
the matter over with him. That would commit him to nothing.”
But she would not hear of it.
“If he thought my happiness depended on it,” she declared, “he would
break with them at all costs. I could not risk it. You must go away.
Oh, my dear, you must go. Go, go!” she entreated almost hysterically,
“it will be best for us both.”
Merriman, though beside himself with suffering, felt he could no longer
disregard her.
“I shall go,” he answered sadly, “since you require it, but I will
never give you up. Not until one of us is dead or you marry someone
else—I will never give you up. Oh, Madeleine, have pity and give me
some hope; something to keep me alive till this trouble is over.”
She was beginning to reply when she stopped suddenly and stood
listening.
“The lorry!” she cried. “Go! Go!” Then pointing wildly in the direction
of the road, she turned and fled rapidly back towards the clearing.
Merriman gazed after her until she passed round a corner of the lane
and was lost to sight among the trees. Then, with a weight of hopeless
despair on his heart, he began to walk towards the road. The lorry,
driven by Henri, passed him at the next bend, and Henri, though he
saluted with a show of respect, smiled sardonically as he noted the
other’s woebegone appearance.
But Merriman neither knew nor cared what the driver thought. Almost
physically sick with misery and disappointment, he regained his taxi
and was driven back to Bordeaux.
The next few days seemed to him like a nightmare of hideous reality and
permanence. He moved as a man in a dream, living under a shadow of
almost tangible weight, as a criminal must do who has been sentenced to
early execution. The longing to see Madeleine again, to hear the sound
of her voice, to feel her presence, was so intense as to be almost
unendurable. Again and again he said to himself that had she cared for
another, had she even told him that she could not care for him, he
would have taken his dismissal as irrevocable and gone to try and drag
out the remainder of his life elsewhere as best he could. But he was
maddened to think that the major difficulty—the overwhelming,
insuperable difficulty—of his suit had been overcome. She loved him!
Miraculous and incredible though it might seem—though it was—it was the
amazing truth. And that being so, it was beyond bearing that a mere
truckling to convention should be allowed to step in and snatch away
the ecstasy of happiness that was within his grasp. And worse still,
this truckling to convention was to save _him!_ What, he asked himself,
did it matter about _him?_ Even if the worst happened and she suffered
shame through her father, wasn’t all he wanted to be allowed to share
it with her? And if narrow, stupid fools did talk, what matter? They
could do without their companionship.
Fits of wild rage alternated with periods of cold and numbing despair,
but as day succeeded day the desire to be near her grew until it could
no longer be denied. He dared not again attempt to force himself into
her presence, lest she should be angry and shatter irrevocably the hope
to which he still clung with desperation. But he might without fear of
disaster be nearer to her for a time. He hired a bicycle, and after
dark had fallen that evening he rode out to the lane, and leaving his
machine on the road, walked to the edge of the clearing. It was a
perfect night, calm and silent, though with a slight touch of chill in
the air. A crescent moon shone soft and silvery, lighting up pallidly
the open space, gleaming on the white wood of the freshly cut stumps,
and throwing black shadows from the ghostly looking buildings. It was
close on midnight, and Merriman looked eagerly across the clearing to
the manager’s house. He was not disappointed. There, in the window that
he knew belonged to her room, shone a light.
He slowly approached, keeping on the fringe of the clearing and beneath
the shadow of the trees. Some shrubs had taken root on the open ground,
and behind a clump of these, not far from the door, he lay down, filled
his pipe, and gave himself up to his dreams. The light still showed in
the window, but even as he looked it went out, leaving the front of the
house dark and, as it seemed to him, unfriendly and forbidding.
“Perhaps she’ll look out before going to bed,” he thought, as he gazed
disconsolately at the blank, unsympathetic opening. But he could see no
movement therein.
He lost count of time as he lay dreaming of the girl whose existence
had become more to him than his very life, and it was not until he
suddenly realized that he had become stiff and cramped from the cold
that he looked at his watch. Nearly two! Once more he glanced
sorrowfully at the window, realizing that no comfort was to be obtained
therefrom, and decided he might as well make his way back, for all the
ease of mind he was getting.
He turned slowly to get up, but just as he did so he noticed a slight
movement at the side of the house before him, and he remained
motionless, gazing intently forward. Then, spellbound, he watched Mr.
Coburn leave by the side door, walk quickly to the shed, unlock a door,
and disappear within.
There was something so secretive in the way the manager looked around
before venturing into the open, and so stealthy about his whole walk
and bearing, that Merriman’s heart beat more quickly as he wondered if
he was now on the threshold of some revelation of the mystery of that
outwardly innocent place. Obeying a sudden instinct, he rose from his
hiding-place in the bushes and crept silently across the sward to the
door by which the other had entered.
It was locked, and the whole place was dark and silent. Were it not for
what he had just seen, Merriman would have believed it deserted. But it
was evident that some secret and perhaps sinister activity was in
progress within, and for the moment he forgot even Madeleine in his
anxiety to learn its nature.
He crept silently round the shed, trying each door and peering into
each window, but without result. All remained fast and in darkness, and
though he listened with the utmost intentness of which he was capable,
he could not catch any sound.
His round of the building completed, he paused in doubt. Should he
retire while there was time, and watch for Mr. Coburn’s reappearance
with perhaps some of his accomplices, or should he wait at the door and
tackle him on the matter when he came out? His first preference was for
the latter course, but as he thought it over he felt it would be better
to reserve his knowledge, and he turned to make for cover.
But even as he did so he heard the manager say in low harsh tones:
“Hands up now, or I fire!” and swinging round, he found himself gazing
into the bore of a small deadly-looking repeating pistol.
Automatically he raised his arms, and for a few moments both men stood
motionless, staring perplexedly at one another. Then Mr. Coburn lowered
the pistol and attempted a laugh, a laugh nervous, shaky, and without
merriment. His lips smiled, but his eyes remained cold and venomous.
“Good heavens, Merriman, but you did give me a start,” he cried, making
an evident effort to be jocular. “What in all the world are you doing
here at this hour? Sorry for my greeting, but one has to be careful
here. You know the district is notorious for brigands.”
Merriman was not usually very prompt to meet emergencies. He generally
realized when it was too late what he ought to have said or done in any
given circumstances. But on this occasion a flash of veritable
inspiration revealed a way by which he might at one and the same time
account for his presence, disarm the manager’s suspicions, and perhaps
even gain his point with regard to Madeleine. He smiled back at the
other.
“Sorry for startling you. Mr. Coburn. I have been looking for you for
some days to discuss a very delicate matter, and I came out late this
evening in the hope of attracting your attention after Miss Coburn had
retired, so that our chat could be quite confidential. But in the
darkness I fell and hurt my knee, and I spent so much time in waiting
for it to get better that I was ashamed to go to the house. Imagine my
delight when, just as I was turning to leave, I saw you coming down to
the shed, and I followed with the object of trying to attract your
attention.”
He hardly expected that Mr. Coburn would have accepted his statement,
but whatever the manager believed privately, he gave no sign of
suspicion.
“I’m glad your journey was not fruitless,” he answered courteously. “As
a matter of fact, my neuralgia kept me from sleeping, and I found I had
forgotten my bottle of aspirin down here, where I had brought it for
the same purpose this morning. It seemed worth the trouble of coming
for it, and I came.”
As he spoke Mr. Coburn took from his pocket and held up for Merriman’s
inspection a tiny phial half full of white tablets.
It was now Merriman’s turn to be sceptical, but he murmured polite
regrets in as convincing a way as he was able. “Let us go back into my
office,” the manager continued. “If you want a private chat you can
have it there.”
He unlocked the door, and passing in first, lit a reading lamp on his
desk. Then relocking the door behind his visitor and unostentatiously
slipping the key into his pocket, he sat down at the desk, waved
Merriman to a chair, and producing a box of cigars, passed it across.
The windows, Merriman noticed, were covered by heavy blinds, and it was
evident that no one could see into the room, nor could the light be
observed from without. The door behind him was locked, and in Mr.
Coburn’s pocket was the key as well as a revolver, while Merriman was
unarmed. Moreover, Mr. Coburn was the larger and heavier, if not the
stronger man of the two. It was true his words and manner were those of
a friend, but the cold hatred in his eyes revealed his purpose.
Merriman instantly realized he was in very real personal danger, and it
was borne in on him that if he was to get out of that room alive, it
was to his own wits he must trust.
But he was no coward, and he did not forget to limp as he crossed the
room, nor did his hand shake as he stretched it out to take a cigar.
When he came within the radius of the lamp he noticed with satisfaction
that his coat was covered with fragments of moss and leaves, and he
rather ostentatiously brushed these away, partly to prove to the other
his calmness, and partly to draw attention to them in the hope that
they would be accepted as evidence of his fall.
Fearing lest if they began a desultory conversation he might be tricked
by his astute opponent into giving himself away, he left the latter no
opportunity to make a remark, but plunged at once into his subject.
“I feel myself, Mr. Coburn,” he began, “not a little in your debt for
granting me this interview. But the matter on which I wish to speak to
you is so delicate and confidential, that I think you will agree that
any precautions against eavesdroppers are justifiable.”
He spoke at first somewhat formally, but as interest in his subject
quickened, he gradually became more conversational.
“The first thing I have to tell you,” he went on, “may not be very
pleasant hearing to you, but it is a matter of almost life and death
importance to me. I have come, Mr. Coburn, very deeply and sincerely to
love your daughter.”
Mr. Coburn frowned slightly, but he did not seem surprised, nor did he
reply except by a slight bow. Merriman continued:
“That in itself need not necessarily be of interest to you, but there
is more to tell, and it is in this second point that the real
importance of my statement lies, and on it hinges everything that I
have to say to you. Madeleine, sir, has given me a definite assurance
that my love for her is returned.”
Still Mr. Coburn made no answer, save then by another slight
inclination of his head, but his eyes had grown anxious and troubled.
“Not unnaturally,” Merriman resumed, “I begged her to marry me, but she
saw fit to decline. In view of the admission she had just made, I was
somewhat surprised that her refusal was so vehement. I pressed her for
the reason, but she utterly declined to give it. Then an idea struck
me, and I asked her if it was because she feared that your connection
with this syndicate might lead to unhappiness. At first she would not
reply nor give me any satisfaction, but at last by persistent
questioning, and only when she saw I knew a great deal more about the
business than she did herself, she admitted that that was indeed the
barrier. Not to put too fine a point on it—it is better, is it not,
sir, to be perfectly candid—she is living in terror and dread of your
arrest, and she won’t marry me for fear that if it were to happen she
might bring disgrace on me.”
Mr. Coburn had not moved during this speech, except that his face had
become paler and the look of cold menace in his eyes seemed charged
with a still more vindictive hatred. Then he answered slowly:
“I can only assume, Mr. Merriman, that your mind has become temporarily
unhinged, but even with such an excuse, you cannot really believe that
I am going to wait here and listen to you making such statements.”
Merriman bent forward.
“Sir,” he said earnestly, “I give you my word of honor and earnestly
ask you to believe that I am approaching you as a friend. I am myself
an interested party. I have sought this interview for Madeleine’s sake.
For her sake, and for her sake only, I have come to ask you to discuss
with me the best way out of the difficulty.”
Mr. Coburn rose abruptly.
“The best way out of the difficulty,” he declared, no longer attempting
to disguise the hatred he felt, “is for you to take yourself off and
never to show your face here again. I am amazed at you.” He took his
automatic pistol out of his pocket. “Don’t you know that you are
completely in my power? If I chose I could shoot you like a dog and
sink your body in the river, and no one would ever know what had become
of you.”
Merriman’s heart was beating rapidly. He had the uncomfortable
suspicion that he had only to turn his back to get a bullet into it. He
assumed a confidence he was far from feeling.
“On the contrary, Mr. Coburn,” he said quietly, “it is you who are in
our power. I’m afraid you don’t quite appreciate the situation. It is
true you could shoot me now, but if you did, nothing could save you. It
would be the rope for you and prison for your confederates, and what
about your daughter then? I tell you, sir, I’m not such a fool as you
take me for. Knowing what I do, do you think it likely I should put
myself in your power unless I knew I was safe?”
His assurance was not without its effect. The other’s face grew paler
and he sat heavily down in his chair.
“I’ll hear what you have to say,” he said harshly, though without
letting go his weapon.
“Then let me begin at the beginning. You remember that first evening I
was here, when you so kindly supplied me with petrol? Sir, you were
correct when you told Captain Beamish and Mr. Bulla that I had noticed
the changing of the lorry number plate. I had.”
Mr. Coburn started slightly, but he did not speak, and Merriman went
on:
“I was interested, though the thing conveyed nothing to me. But some
time later I mentioned it casually, and Hilliard, who has a mania for
puzzles, overheard. He suggested my joining him on his trip, and
calling to see if we could solve it. You, Mr. Coburn, said another
thing to your friends—that though I might have noticed about the lorry,
you were certain neither Hilliard nor I had seen anything suspicious at
the clearing. There, sir, you were wrong. Though at that time we could
not tell what was going on, we knew it was something illegal.”
Coburn was impressed at last. He sat motionless, staring at the
speaker. As Merriman remained silent, he moved.
“Go on,” he said hoarsely, licking his dry lips.
“I would ask you please to visualize the situation when we left.
Hilliard believed he was on the track of a criminal organization,
carrying on illicit operations on a large scale. He believed that by
lodging with the police the information he had gained, the break-up of
the organization and the capture of its members would be assured, and
that he would stand to gain much kudos. But he did not know what the
operations were, and he hesitated to come forward, lest by not waiting
and investigating further he should destroy his chance of handing over
to the authorities a complete case. He was therefore exceedingly keen
that we should carry on inquiries at what I may call the English end of
the business. Such was Hilliard’s attitude. I trust I make myself
clear.”
Again Coburn nodded without speaking.
“My position was different. I had by that time come to care for
Madeleine, and I saw the effect any disclosure must have on her. I
therefore wished things kept secret, and I urged Hilliard to carry out
his second idea and investigate further so as to make his case
complete. He made my assistance a condition of agreement, and I
therefore consented to help him.”
Mr. Coburn was now ghastly, and was listening with breathless
earnestness to his visitor. Merriman realized what he had always
suspected, that the man was weak and a bit of a coward, and he began to
believe his bluff would carry him through.
“I need not trouble you,” he went on, “with all the details of our
search. It is enough to say that we found out what we wanted. We went
to Hull, discovered the wharf at Ferriby, made the acquaintance of
Benson, and witnessed what went on there. We know all about Archer and
how he plants your stuff, and Morton, who had us under observation and
whom we properly tricked. I don’t claim any credit for it; all that
belongs to Hilliard. And I admit we did not learn certain small details
of your scheme. But the main points are clear—clear enough to get
convictions anyway.”
After a pause to let his words create their full effect, Merriman
continued:
“Then arose the problem that had bothered us before. Hilliard was wild
to go to the authorities with his story; on Madeleine’s account I still
wanted it kept quiet. I needn’t recount our argument. Suffice it to say
that at last we compromised. Hilliard agreed to wait for a month. For
the sake of our friendship and the help I had given him, he undertook
to give me a month to settle something about Madeleine. Mr. Coburn,
nearly half that month is gone and I am not one step farther on.”
The manager wiped the drops of sweat from his pallid brow. Merriman’s
quiet, confident manner, with its apparent absence of bluff or threat,
had had its effect on him. He was evidently thoroughly frightened, and
seemed to think it no longer worth while to plead ignorance. As
Merriman had hoped and intended, he appeared to conclude that
conciliation would be his best chance.
“Then no one but you two know so far?” he asked, a shifty, sly look
passing over his face.
Merriman read his thoughts and bluffed again.
“Yes and no,” he answered. “No one but we two know at present. On the
other hand, we have naturally taken all reasonable precautions.
Hilliard prepared a full statement of the matter which we both signed,
and this he sent to his banker with a request that unless he claimed it
in person before the given date, the banker was to convey it to
Scotland Yard. If anything happens to me here, Hilliard will go at once
to the Yard, and if anything happens to him our document will be sent
there. And in it we have suggested that if either of us disappear, it
will be equivalent to adding murder to the other charges made.”
It was enough. Mr. Coburn sat, broken and completely cowed. To Merriman
he seemed suddenly to have become an old man. For several minutes
silence reigned, and then at last the other spoke.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, in a tremulous voice, hardly
louder than a whisper.
Merriman’s heart leaped.
“To consider your daughter, Mr. Coburn,” he answered promptly. “All I
want is to marry Madeleine, and for her sake I want you to get out of
this thing before the crash comes.”
Mr. Coburn once more wiped the drops of sweat from his forehead.
“Good lord!” he cried hoarsely. “Ever since it started I have been
trying to get out of it. I was forced into it against my will and I
would give my soul if I could do as you say and get free. But I can’t—I
can’t.”
He buried his head in his hands and sat motionless, leaning on his
desk.
“But your daughter, Mr. Coburn,” Merriman persisted. “For her sake
something must be done.”
Mr. Coburn shook his clenched fists in the air.
“Damnation take you!” he cried, with a sudden access of rage, “do you
think I care about myself? Do you think I’d sit here and listen to you
talking as you’ve done if it wasn’t for her? I tell you I’d shoot you
as you sit, if I didn’t know from my own observation that she is fond
of you. I swear it’s the only thing that has saved you.” He rose to his
feet and began pacing jerkily to and fro. “See here,” he continued
wildly, “go away from here before I do it. I can’t stand any more of
you at present. Go now and come back on Friday night at the same time,
and I’ll tell you of my decision. Here’s the key,” he threw it down on
the desk. “Get out quick before I do for you!”
Merriman was for a moment inclined to stand his ground, but, realizing
that not only had he carried his point as far as he could have
expected, but also that his companion was in so excited a condition as
hardly to be accountable for his actions, he decided discretion was the
better part, and merely saying: “Very well, Friday night,” he unlocked
the door and took his leave.
On the whole he was well pleased with his interview. In the first
place, he had by his readiness escaped an imminent personal danger.
What was almost as important, he had broken the ice with Mr. Coburn
about Madeleine, and the former had not only declared that he was aware
of the state of his daughter’s feelings, but he had expressed no
objection to the proposed match. Further, an understanding as to Mr.
Coburn’s own position had been come to. He had practically admitted
that the syndicate was a felonious conspiracy, and had stated that he
would do almost anything to get out of it. Finally he had promised a
decision on the whole question in three days’ time. Quite a triumph,
Merriman thought.
On the other hand he had given the manager a warning of the danger
which the latter might communicate to his fellow-conspirators, with the
result that all of them might escape from the net in which Hilliard, at
any rate, wished to enmesh them. And just to this extent he had become
a co-partner in their crime. And though it was true that he had escaped
from his immediate peril, he had undoubtedly placed himself and
Hilliard in very real danger. It was by no means impossible that the
gang would decide to murder both of the men whose knowledge threatened
them, in the hope of bluffing the bank manager out of the letter which
they would believe he held. Merriman had invented this letter on the
spur of the moment and he would have felt a good deal happier if he
knew that it really existed. He decided that he would write to Hilliard
immediately and get him to make it a reality.
A great deal, he thought, depended on the character of Coburn. If he
was weak and cowardly he would try to save his own skin and let the
others walk into the net. Particularly might he do this if he had
suffered at their hands in the way he suggested. On the other hand, a
strong man would undoubtedly consult his fellow-conspirators and see
that a pretty determined fight was made for their liberty and their
source of gain.
He had thought of all this when it suddenly flashed into his mind that
Mr. Coburn’s presence in the shed at two in the morning in itself
required a lot of explanation. He did not for a moment believe the
aspirin story. The man had looked so shifty while he was speaking, that
even at the time Merriman had decided he was lying. What then could he
have been doing?
He puzzled over the questions but without result. Then it occurred to
him that as he was doing nothing that evening he might as well ride out
again to the clearing and see if any nocturnal activities were
undertaken.
Midnight therefore found him once more ensconced behind a group of
shrubs in full view of both the house and the shed. It was again a
perfect night, and again he lay dreaming of the girl who was so near in
body and in spirit, and yet so infinitely far beyond his reach.
Time passed slowly, but the hours wore gradually round until his watch
showed two o’clock. Then, just as he was thinking that he need hardly
wait much longer, he was considerably thrilled to see Mr. Coburn once
more appear at the side door of the house, and in the same stealthy,
secretive way as on the previous night, walk hurriedly to the shed and
let himself in by the office door.
At first Merriman thought of following him again in the hope of
learning the nature of these strange proceedings, but a moment’s
thought showed him he must run no risk of discovery. If Coburn learned
that he was being spied on he would at once doubt Merriman’s statement
that he knew the syndicate’s secret. It would be better, therefore, to
lie low and await events.
But the only other interesting event that happened was that some
fifteen minutes later the manager left the shed, and with the same show
of secrecy returned to his house, disappearing into the side door.
So intrigued was Merriman by the whole business that he determined to
repeat his visit the following night also. He did so, and once again
witnessed Mr. Coburn’s stealthy walk to the shed at two a.m., and his
equally stealthy return at two-fifteen.
Rack his brains as he would over the problem of these nocturnal visits,
Merriman could think of no explanation. What for three consecutive
nights could bring the manager down to the sawmill? He could not
imagine, but he was clear it was not the pit-prop industry.
If the _Girondin_ had been in he would have once more suspected
smuggling, but she was then at Ferriby. No, it certainly did not work
in with smuggling. Still less did it suggest false note printing,
unless—Merriman’s heart beat more quickly as a new idea entered his
mind. Suppose the notes were printed there, at the mill! Suppose there
was a cellar under the engine house, and suppose the work was done at
night? It was true they had not seen signs of a cellar, but if this
surmise was correct it was not likely they would.
At first sight this theory seemed a real advance, but a little further
thought showed it had serious objections. Firstly, it did not explain
Coburn’s nightly visits. If the manager had spent some hours in the
works it might have indicated the working of a press, but what in that
way could be done in fifteen minutes? Further, and this seemed to put
the idea quite out of court, if the notes were being produced at the
clearing, why the changing of the lorry numbers? That would then be a
part of the business quite unconnected with the illicit traffic. After
much thought, Merriman had to admit to himself that here was one more
of the series of insoluble puzzles with which they found themselves
faced.
The next night was Friday, and in accordance with the arrangement made
with Mr. Coburn, Merriman once again went out to the clearing,
presenting himself at the works door at two in the morning. Mr. Coburn
at once opened to his knock, and after locking the door, led the way to
his office. There he wasted no time in preliminaries.
“I’ve thought this over, Merriman,” he said, and his manner was very
different from that of the previous interview, “and I’m bound to say
that I’ve realized that, though interested, your action towards me has
been correct not to say generous. Now I’ve made up my mind what to do,
and I trust you will see your way to fall in with my ideas. There is a
meeting of the syndicate on Thursday week. I should have been present
in any case, and I have decided that, whatever may be the result, I
will tell them I am going to break with them. I will give ill-health as
my reason for this step, and fortunately or unfortunately I can do this
with truth, as my heart is seriously diseased. I can easily provide the
necessary doctor’s certificates. If they accept my resignation, well
and good—I will emigrate to my brother in South America, and you and
Madeleine can be married. If they decline, well”—Mr. Coburn shrugged
his shoulders—“your embarrassment will be otherwise removed.”
He paused. Merriman would have spoken, but Mr. Coburn held up his hand
for silence and went on:
“I confess I have been terribly upset for the last three days to
discover my wisest course, and even now I am far from certain that my
decision is best. I do not want to go back on my former friends, and on
account of Madeleine I cannot go back on you. Therefore, I cannot warn
the others of their danger, but on the other hand I won’t give your
life into their hands. For if they knew what I know now, you and
Hilliard would be dead men inside twenty-four hours.”
Mr. Coburn spoke simply and with a certain dignity, and Merriman found
himself disposed not only to believe what he had heard, but even to
understand and sympathize with the man in the embarrassing
circumstances in which he found himself. That his difficulties were of
his own making there could be but little doubt, but how far he had put
himself in the power of his associates through deliberate evil-doing,
and how far through mistakes or weakness, there was of course no way of
learning.
At the end of an hour’s discussion, Mr. Coburn had agreed at all costs
to sever his connection with the syndicate, to emigrate to his brother
in Chile, and to do his utmost to induce his daughter to remain in
England to marry Merriman. On his side, Merriman undertook to hold back
the lodging of information at Scotland Yard for one more week, to
enable the other’s arrangements to be carried out.
There being nothing to keep him in Bordeaux, Merriman left for London
that day, and the next evening he was closeted with Hilliard in the
latter’s rooms, discussing the affair. Hilliard at first was most
unwilling to postpone their visit to the Yard but he agreed on
Merriman’s explaining that he had pledged himself to the delay.
So the days, for Merriman heavily weighted with anxiety and suspense,
began slowly to drag by. His fate and the fate of the girl he loved
hung in the balance, and not the least irksome feature of his position
was his own utter impotence. There was nothing that he could do—no
action which would take him out of himself and ease the tension of his
thoughts. As day succeeded day and the silence remained unbroken, he
became more and more upset. At the end of a week he was almost beside
himself with worry and chagrin, so much so that he gave up attending
his office altogether, and was only restrained from rushing back to
Bordeaux by the knowledge that to force himself once more on Madeleine
might be to destroy, once and for ever, any hopes he might otherwise
have had.
It was now four days since the Thursday on which Mr. Coburn had stated
that the meeting of the syndicate was to have been held, and only three
days to the date on which the friends had agreed to tell their story at
Scotland Yard. What if he received no news during those three days?
Would Hilliard agree to a further postponement? He feared not, and he
was racked with anxiety as to whether he should cross that day to
France and seek another interview with Mr. Coburn.
But, even as he sat with the morning paper in his hand, news was nearer
than he imagined. Listlessly he turned over the sheets, glancing with
but scant attention to the headlines, automatically running his eyes
over the paragraphs. And when he came to one headed “Mystery of a
Taxi-cab,” he absent-mindedly began to read it also.
But he had not gone very far when his manner changed. Starting to his
feet, he stared at the column with horror-stricken eyes, while his face
grew pallid and his pipe dropped to the floor from his open mouth. With
the newspaper still tightly grasped in his hand, he ran three steps at
a time down the stairs of his flat, and calling a taxi, was driven to
Scotland Yard.
PART TWO.
THE PROFESSIONALS