THE HUNT IS UP
There then, awhile in chains we lay
In wintry dungeons, far from day;
But risen at last, with might and main,
Our iron fetters burst in twain.
Then all the horns were blown in town;
And to the ramparts clanging down,
All the giants leaped to horse,
And charged behind us, through the gorse.
--ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Every faculty in Felix was sharpened to its highest pitch as he lay
down that night upon his comfortless bed aboard the _Sarah Dawkes_.
The man on the wharf was a detective, and he was looking for
Veronica. His source of information was doubtless some one of the
men aboard the _George Barnes_. He was in the employment of the two
wolves, and he had that invaluable clew which the police lacked. He
knew that he had to hunt two runaways. There were sure to be persons
who had seen them limping along towards the docks that night of
terror, of lurid excitement and breathless escape. So long as you
knew what you were looking for, they were not hard to trace.
"But what beats me," said Felix to himself, "is how it is he did not
find out that she was put ashore at Dunhythe. If he has followed up
our trail, how could he have missed that? The whole village saw her
go."
A spasm of fear shook him, lest the shelter of the Cottage Hospital
should be inadequate. If her uncle came to fetch her, they would
have to hand her over. He raged in his heart, rolling over and over
sleepless, wondering whether the detective was "pulling his leg,"
whether he knew, all the time, where Rona was--whether she was no
longer where he left her, but gone, taken away, out of his reach. He
yearned to know. But how? The idea crossed his mind that he might
steal out, borrow the bicycle of a fellow-workman at the timber-yard,
and ride over, before morning, to ascertain that she was safe. But
that would be to reveal his secret, were the detective still on the
watch.
The question was: What would the detective do? Would he go off on
that false clew and follow up David Smith to Plymouth? Or had he
known all along that Felix was he, in spite of lying? Would he stay
in Basingstoke or leave the town? Was he out there watching on the
wharf, or had he departed?
After a time the suspense grew intolerable. It was a mild night, and
David sweated as he lay. After bearing it as long as he could he
noiselessly rolled out of bed, and crawled snake-wise along the deck,
which was in deep black shadow, took up a post of vantage behind a
pile of the timber with which the barge was being gradually loaded,
and peeped forth. He saw no man, but he did see from among the bales
and trucks that encumbered the wharf a faint glimmer, which meant the
bowl of a pipe. He saw it move, as the smoker took it from his
mouth, rammed it down with his thumb, and replaced it.
It was just out of sight of the night-watchman, whose cabin was
clearly to be seen from the deck of the _Sarah Dawkes_. It was the
detective, and he was keeping an eye upon the barge. Felix wondered
whether he was alone or had a confederate. He did not think it would
be hard to give him the slip, if that were all.
But, on further reflection, he decided that his proper course was to
take no notice at all. He must behave as if the man and his
movements were absolutely nothing to him. The weak spot was Doggett.
If the detective got on to him, the Old Man was bound to give away
the fact that Felix was the chap who had traveled from London with
him. How could he warn him, without exciting suspicion? He bitterly
blamed himself for sleeping upon the barge. He might have had the
common intelligence to reflect that, if inquiries were made, it was
likely the barge would be traced, and that the place to which anybody
in need of information would come would be that precise spot.
What would happen in the morning? Doggett usually appeared when
Felix had done breakfast, and was starting for the wood-yard at
half-past six. To reach his barge, he must pass the man on the
wharf, and he would be questioned. On the other hand, if Felix
pushed matters forward and hurried off in time to intercept Doggett,
the man on the wharf might join him, and insist on walking beside
him. He thought over this, long and carefully, and a brilliant idea
suggested itself.
Rising in the gray dawn, he washed and dressed carefully. He put on
a collar and tie, a height of elegance which the wood-yard had
hitherto never dreamt of. No matter, it was easily removed when he
got there. The suit he had purchased with the money earned by his
secretarial labors was tidy and quiet, and gave him the appearance of
a very respectable young clerk. He was not at all like the gaunt,
starved scarecrow in his grimy jersey and greasy trousers. His hair
and beard were trim, though he had not shaved. He cooked his
bloater, made his tea, and set all ready for breakfast. But before
beginning it he slipped out upon the wharf, and approached the cabin
of the night-watchman, whose habit was to breakfast at six before
leaving his post for home and bed.
It was half-past five when Felix peeped into his cabin, and not yet
fully light. The detective's form could be dimly seen for a moment,
huddled a little sideways. He had yielded for an hour to an
ungovernable drowsiness.
"There's a poor chap out there," said Felix, softly, "who's what they
call a right-to-worker. He wants a job on this wharf. We ain't got
no jobs, but you might, when your coffee's ready, mate, give him a
bite if you felt like it. I would meself, only I'm afraid of getting
hindered and fined up at the yard."
The night-watchman sat staring. He was a stupid man, but kind.
"A'right," said he, huskily, at last. "In a quarter of a hour."
"Look here, mate, thankye kindly for that. I'm buying baccy to-day,
and I won't forget you. But your ear one moment. Don't let him get
pumping you about the work on this here wharf, or Old Man Doggett'll
be jumping on us. Just tell him there's no work going, and if there
is you don't know anything about it. Last night he wanted to know
the family history of every barge owner in the place."
The night-watchman nodded. "I know his sort," he remarked, with
sarcasm. "But I'll give 'im a bit to stay his stomach, for all that."
Felix nodded, and slipped away. His stockinged feet made no noise on
the wharf; and for a moment, as he saw the attitude of the sleeping
detective, he had a mind to leave his breakfast and walk past him
then and there. But two reasons withheld him--hunger for one thing,
and the fear that the man might be shamming. Ten minutes later,
peering through his tiny window, he saw that the spy was sitting up
and stretching himself, after which he rose slowly and began to stamp
about on the wharf, and to flap his arms vigorously, to restore the
circulation. Then he came to the edge, close to the barge, and
whistled.
Felix took no notice. He had taken the precaution to push the _Sarah
Dawkes_ off from the wharf, when embarking, so that the gang-plank
would be required by anyone trying to board her. He breathed a
devout thanksgiving that he had done so, for otherwise he would have
been invaded, without doubt.
The man loafed along, stooping his head, trying to see in through
dirty windows, and whistling from time to time. But Felix made no
sign. When the stranger had occupied about five minutes wandering up
and down, the night-watchman was seen to emerge from an open door
whence came a smell of fried fish, appetizing enough to one who had
passed the night in the open. The supposed tramp was
accosted--halted--and as Felix had hoped, succumbed, and was drawn
into the cabin, and the door shut.
"Want to speak to 'im?" he heard the night-watchman say, as they
moved away. "Well, you'll 'ave time for that, 'e don't turn out not
till just on the 'arf-hour."
He waited three minutes--just until the two were sitting down to
their feast--and then stepped ashore, and walked off quietly until he
was round the corner where the huge piles of timber hid him. Then he
took to his heels and ran until he came to the Doggett mansion,
situated in Marsh Lane.
Now, Doggett had known that they were fugitives, though he saw no
reason to disbelieve the story that Rona was his sister. Felix asked
him straight out not to give him away. He told him a detective was
hanging about on the wharf pretending to be out of work; and that if
he asked what became of the boy who came from London with him, he was
to say that he was tramping towards Plymouth, in order to leave the
country, and had taken his sister with him.
Felix impressed this with some urgency upon the Old Man, and added
that his best course would be to be so abusive and disagreeable that
the man would not stay to question. This was an accomplishment in
which the Old Man excelled; and it was pretty certain to flare forth
in him when accosted by loafers in search of a job. Felix went on to
say that he was now earning good money, and that he was thinking that
some slight return for the service Mr. Doggett had rendered him, and
was now further about to render him, would not be out of place. He
proposed to have a chat, later on, respecting the form this should
take. Mr. Doggett was pleased. He had done well that trip. He had
paid Felix not more than half what he had to pay to his boy
ordinarily. He had got his barge minded at nights for nothing--not
to mention Miss Rawson's munificent tip--and it was being suggested
that he should be still further rewarded, for services of a kind so
attenuated that even he hardly recognized them to be worth paying for.
"Clawss they are; I thought it from the fust," he said to his wife,
after Felix was gone. "And if you helps anyone as is real clawss,
somehow, you never lose by it. I'm a match for a 'tec, don't you
worry, mother. A match for any blooming 'tec in Scotland Yard or out
of it."
One wishes, for the sake of fidelity to nature, that the exact
conversation, which did actually take place between these two
worthies later, when the Old Man went loafing down to his Sarah,
could be recorded. But it must be in some other and less blameless
chronicle than this.
The detective was put into a bad temper to start with, by being
savagely warned to be off and not to put his adjective soles in Mr.
Doggett's beautiful clean barge. They never got within measurable
distance of any point at which the inquirer after truth could pump
the bargee, or ask any intimate question. He was completely routed,
and there was nothing for it but to stand by, glean what gossip he
could in the town, and attack Felix when he appeared that night. He
was furiously angry with himself that he had yielded to the breakfast
invitation of the night-watchman, so that the young man had got away
before he was aware. He was convinced that the Old Man had been
warned, and this to excellent effect. He made inquiries all about as
to whether a girl had been on board the barge, and was told as many
different stories as the persons he questioned. As, first, that this
was true; that she was taken to the smallpox hospital on the other
side of the county; secondly, that it was not true, but that the
individual then speaking could and would introduce the detective to
as good, or better, than ever old Doggett had aboard; thirdly, that
if Mrs. Doggett had a hint, she'd make it her duty to find out; and
fourthly, that there were two girls who paid their passage home that
way, but it was a year ago come next June.
It had certainly been a hard fate which took him, at Dunhythe, to
inquire of one of the few natives who had been out of the way when
the _Sarah Dawkes_ went by, but who cheerfully informed him that the
barge had gone straight through without stopping at the wharf.
The detective was misled by the extreme probability that this was
true. Persons escaping would not tarry all night at Dunhythe. He
had been surprised that they stopped, as they undoubtedly had done,
at Sunbury. The moon had been bright--why not go on as fast as they
could? He could get no definite assurance of a sick girl on board at
Sunbury, and for a week had been under the impression that it was at
this point that she had been removed from the barge. His pursuit of
this idea delayed him long, and brought him to Dunhythe when the
scent was stale, and the small incident beginning to fade from the
foreground of people's minds owing to the scarlet-fever scare.
His only trustworthy clew, so far, was the report of the _George
Barnes_ men; and in the absence of any confirmation of it he was
inclined to look upon the clew as worthless, except for the slipping
away of Felix that morning--which might, after all, have been
accidental.
Felix's head swam all day long with a sense of new and complicated
responsibilities. All the morning as he worked the idea was growing
stronger in his mind that he would confide in his Russian friend,
whose ignorance of English made him very safe. He might be able to
tell him how to baffle the sort of shadowing to which he was being
subjected. At least, he might come down with him to the wharf that
night and prevent his being worried by the watcher.
As soon as they knocked off work at the yard he hastened away. The
detective was in the High Street, idling near a tavern. He was not
quick enough. Felix saw him as he went by. It was a surprise to the
spy to see the young fellow, trim and neat after his day's work, go
calmly and openly into the best inn in the place.
Felix hurried in, and was at once pounced upon by the waiter.
"Mr. Vronsky wants you badly, sir; he said I was to catch you as you
went by. He has got a gentleman from Wales in there, and they can't
understand either one a word of what the other says."