RETREAT
Out in the lane a motley little group of men were standing. Stephen Hurd
was in the act of springing off his brown cob. The dogs were already in
the shelter.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Hurd asked, as Macheson strode
through the undergrowth.
Macheson pointed to the shelter.
"I could find no other lodging," he answered, "thanks to circumstances
of which you are aware."
Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines
under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough
tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather
shoes were splashed with mud.
"We are chasing a man," he said. "Have you seen him?"
"I have," Macheson answered. "What has he done?"
There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.
"Murdered--my father!"
Macheson was shocked.
"You mean--that Mr. Hurd is dead?" he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.
"Dead!" the young man answered with a sob. "Killed in his chair!"
The dogs came out of the shelter. They turned towards the interior of
the spinney. The little crowd came streaming through the gate.
"I gave shelter to a man who admitted that he was in trouble," he said
gravely. "He heard the dogs and he was terrified. He has jumped into the
slate quarry."
The dogs were on the trail now. They followed them to the edge of the
quarry. Here the bushes were trodden down, a man's cap was hanging on
one close to the bottom. They all peered over into the still water,
unnaturally black. Amies, the head keeper, raised his head.
"It's twenty-five feet deep--some say forty, and a sheer drop," he
declared impressively. "We'll have to drag it for the body."
"Best take the dogs round the other side, and make sure he ain't got out
again," one of the crowd suggested.
Amies pointed scornfully to the precipitous side. Such a feat was
clearly impossible. Nevertheless the dogs were taken round. For a few
minutes they were uneasy, but eventually they returned to the spot from
which their intended victim had dived. Every one was peering down into
the dark water as though fascinated.
"I thought as they come up once or twice before they were drownded,"
somebody remarked.
"Not unless they want to," another answered. "This chap wasn't too
anxious. He knew his goose was cooked."
The dogs were muzzled and led away. One by one the labourers and
servants dispersed. Two of them started off to telegraph for a drag.
Stephen Hurd was one of the last to depart.
"I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am for you," Macheson
declared earnestly. "Such a tragedy in a village like Thorpe seems
almost incredible. I suppose it was a case of attempted robbery?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," Hurd answered. "There was plenty of money left
untouched, and I can't find that there is any short. The man arrived
after the maids had gone to bed, but they heard him knock at the door,
and heard my father let him in."
"They didn't hear any struggle then?" Macheson asked.
Hurd shook his head.
"There was only one blow upon his head," he answered. "Graikson says
that death was probably through shock."
Macheson felt curiously relieved.
"The man did not go there as a murderer then," he remarked. "Perhaps not
even as a thief. There may have been a quarrel."
"He killed him, anyhow," Hurd said brokenly. "What time was it when you
first saw him?"
"About midnight, I should think," Macheson answered. "He came down the
lane like a drunken man."
"What was he like?" Hurd asked.
"Small, and I should say a foreigner," Macheson answered. "He spoke
English perfectly, but there was an accent, and when he was asleep he
talked to himself in a language which, to the best of my belief, I have
never heard before in my life."
"A foreigner?" Hurd muttered. "You are sure of that?"
"Quite," Macheson answered. "There could be no mistake about it."
Stephen Hurd mounted his cob and turned its head towards home. He asked
no more questions; he seemed, if possible, graver than ever. Before he
started, however, he pointed with his whip towards the shelter.
"You've no right there, you know," he said. "We can't allow it. You must
clear out at once."
"Very well," Macheson answered. "I'm trespassing, of course, but one
must sleep somewhere."
"There is no necessity for you to remain in Thorpe at all," Hurd said.
"I think, in the circumstances, the best thing you can do is to go."
"In the circumstances!" The irony of the phrase struck home. What did
this young man know of the circumstances? There were reasons now,
indeed, why he should fly from Thorpe as from a place stricken with the
pestilence. But no other soul in this world could know of those reasons
save himself--and she.
"I should not, of course, think of holding my services at present,"
Macheson said gravely. "If you think it would be better, I will go
away."
Stephen Hurd nodded as he cantered off.
"I am glad to hear you say so," he declared shortly. "Go and preach in
the towns where this scum is reared. There's plenty of work for
missioners there."
Macheson stood still until the young man on his pony had disappeared.
Then he turned round and walked slowly back towards the slate quarry.
The black waters remained smooth and unrippled; there was no sound of
human movement anywhere. In the adjoining field a harvesting-machine was
at work; in the spinney itself the rabbits, disturbed last night by the
storm, were scurrying about more frolicsome than usual; a solitary
thrush was whistling in the background. The sunlight lay in crooked
beams about the undergrowth, a gentle west breeze was just stirring the
foliage overhead. There was nothing in the air to suggest in any way the
strange note of tragedy which the coming of this hunted man had
nevertheless brought.
Macheson was turning away when a slight disturbance in the undergrowth
on the other side of the quarry attracted his notice. He stood still and
watched the spot. The bracken was shaking slightly--then the sound of a
dry twig, suddenly snapped! For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned on
his heel and walked abruptly away. With almost feverish haste, he flung
his few belongings into his portmanteau, leaving in the shelter his
flask, a suit of clothes, and several trifles. Five minutes later he was
on his way down the hill, with his bag upon his shoulder and his face
set southwards.