CHECK!
Wallace found his car and was moving in a few seconds. More by luck
than judgment he found his way through the network of roads into
Basset. From there it was straight going except for two turnings.
“What was it you discovered, Connie?”
“I discovered who Steinbech is, and I think I know what those figures
signify-- By Jove, they’re following--and gaining!”
Wallace could see the reflection of the other car’s lights in his
driving mirror. There were three persons aboard, so it was obvious
that Walther had been set free.
“They are desperate this time,” he said. “They know that you have hit
upon the secret and mean to stop us from using that knowledge.”
Zip! A bullet hit the road alongside the car, and the report followed
later. Wallace set his mouth firmly and “opened out.” At terrific pace
the Bentley roared up the road, but the lights in the driving mirror
seemed no farther away.
Zip! Zip! Two more bullets hit the road and went whining into the air.
“This is the devil!” said Conrad.
“It isn’t us they are aiming at.”
“The tank?”
“No. That wouldn’t pull us up quick enough. The target is a back tyre.
God knows what will happen if they succeed, for the road is as greasy
as pork.”
“Have you got your pistol?”
“In my pocket.”
“I’m going to have a pot at them,” said Conrad. “Hanged if I can sit
here and calmly serve as a target.”
He extracted the pistol and let off two rounds. But it seemed to have
no effect upon the speed of the overtaking car.
“Let ’em come,” muttered Conrad. “I’ll plant a bullet or two in their
front tyres. That ought to cause them some excitement.”
Wallace eased off a trifle, but still maintained a prodigious speed.
The other car came nearer and nearer, and Conrad rested the barrel of
the pistol on the back of the seat. He was about to let loose when a
regular volley came from behind, and simultaneously a different kind
of report was heard closer at hand. Unfortunately the Bentley was just
taking the corner, when the near-side tyre became deflated from a
bullet puncture. The car bumped alarmingly, and got into a frightful
skid. Conrad had a kind of futuristic vision of hedges, signposts, and
telegraph post all jumbled up, and a second later he was flung clean
out of his seat and over the hedge.
Wallace, more prepared for the inevitable, suffered less. He made a
great effort to prevent the car from overturning, and succeeded by
ramming her nose into a heap of sand on the roadside. But the violent
stoppage took the skin off his knees and elbows, and almost stunned
him.
He saw the other car pass the turning and pull up dead. Three figures
leapt from it and made towards him. Vainly he searched for the
pistol--and was dumbfounded to discover suddenly that Conrad was no
longer with him. Niels came running forward with a pistol in his hand.
“Put up your hands!” he snapped.
In reply, Wallace picked up the jack-handle--a fairly heavy bar of
iron--and crouched behind the car.
“Come and get me,” he said.
“Better come quietly.”
“Careful, Niels! Look!”
Walther pointed up the road, and Niels cursed to see car lights
approaching at a great speed. Wallace turned his head sharply and
recognised the oncoming car. It was Yolande’s Hispano, and he had no
doubt that Fouchard was aboard. He waved his hands.
“The police!” exclaimed Heinrich. “Quick!”
The trio beat an instant retreat. Fouchard jumped from the Hispano
before it stopped and ran forward. He was followed by two gendarmes.
“What has happened? Was that Niels?”
“Yes--the whole gang.”
“_Mon Dieu_--after them, Laroche!”
“It’s no use--you haven’t a chance,” said Wallace. “Conrad is lying
somewhere about--injured, I fear.”
“I can’t miss this opportunity.”
“It’s no opportunity. The Hispano can’t look at that car. They are off
already--see! I know where they hang out, and will direct you in a few
minutes. Help me find Conrad.”
Fouchard fumed as the other car went speeding away. In any case, the
Bentley was too much across the road to permit the Hispano to pass.…
They found Conrad over the hedge. He had hit his head against
something and was quite unconscious. Wallace found a nasty wound just
over the right temple.
“Better get him to the château, and call a doctor,” he said, after
they had carried Conrad into the Hispano. “The Bentley seems to be all
right except for a burst tyre, but her beauty is ruined.”
After making sure that nothing else was wrong, Wallace sped them away
and then changed his back wheel. He overtook them before they reached
the château, and was able to help Fouchard carry Conrad to a bedroom.
Yolande came in with agitated face.
“I have rung for a doctor,” she said. “Do you think he is seriously
injured?”
“Impossible to tell. What a rotten time he has had! Did you tell the
doctor it was urgent?”
“Yes. He should be here in a quarter of an hour.”
“There is nothing I can do here,” said Fouchard. “Where exactly is
Niels’s rendezvous?”
Wallace told him how to reach the place, and Fouchard started off
immediately with the excited gendarmes. The doctor lost no time in
coming to the château, and Wallace and Yolande awaited his verdict
anxiously.
“Concussion,” he said. “He has sustained a bad blow, but I think there
is no danger. In all probability he will regain consciousness by
to-morrow morning.”
He did all he possibly could for the unconscious man, and then left,
after promising to call on the morrow.
“He ought to have a nurse,” said Yolande. “But it is impossible to get
one to-night.”
“I’ll shift my bed into his room,” said Wallace. “Poor old Connie! He
seems to receive all the bad knocks.”
“Did he tell you how they managed to capture him?”
“No. There wasn’t time. I had scarcely set him free when Niels
returned. They followed us by car and burst my back tyre with a pistol
shot. But for Fouchard’s timely arrival, the pair of us would have
been taken back to the cellar.”
“And you don’t even know what it is that he has to tell us?”
“That’s the worst of it. He was about to tell me when the gang started
shooting. Here we are right on the verge of the solution, but helpless
until Conrad is able to speak.”
Two hours passed before Fouchard returned with the Hispano. He was
covered with mud and would not say a word until he had had a clean up.
From this fact Wallace deduced that once again the gang had been too
smart for him.
“Well,” said Wallace at last. “Did you find the place?”
“Yes, but the birds had flown. We ransacked it, but found nothing.
They had taken their bags and belongings, so it will be useless
looking there again.”
“They haven’t gone far.”
“I’m not so sure. Now that we have Conrad we can get to the bottom of
this thing. I think they have shot their last bolt.”
“There is another hitch, Fouchard.”
“Eh?”
“Conrad has concussion. We shall learn nothing from him to-night.”
“That is bad luck. I am due in Paris to-morrow night. But I shall not
go.”
“But you said----”
“They will have to do without my evidence for a day or two. I am not
going to Paris before this affair is cleared up. I shall wire them
to-morrow. If it had been me that was thrown out of the car instead of
your friend I could not go to Paris. Very well, I will have concussion
or yellow fever.”
“Splendid!” said Yolande. “If it were not for poor Mr. Conrad I should
feel more hopeful to-night than I have felt for many days. I have an
intuition that we are coming out into the light.”
Fouchard had a big pile of official documents to wade through, so he
offered to do the work in Conrad’s room. Wallace was grateful, but he
suspected that, although Fouchard’s offer was more or less
disinterested, he yet had hopes that Conrad might recover sufficiently
to be able to solve the enigma of the slip of paper.
“I’m glad Fouchard is staying,” said Yolande. “For, despite his
belief, I feel sure that Niels has not yet thrown up the sponge. He
knows that Conrad has made an important discovery, but that may drive
him into making a last furious attempt to outwit us.”
“Perhaps. But we should be able to deal with them.”
They were walking up and down the terrace, with the light of the full
moon full upon them. From a tree in the abyss beneath them an owl set
up an eerie hoot, and Wallace felt Yolande’s hand close upon his arm.
“Only an owl.”
“I dislike them intensely. I heard one on that dreadful night when my
father----”
“Don’t think of that.”
“Most of the horror has gone now. It was the first blow that was
almost unbearable. Do you believe in an after-life?” she added
suddenly.
“I don’t know. I can’t see why there should be. If the soul is
immortal, why cannot it remember what it was before it entered our
bodies on this earth?”
“It may all be there--in our subconscious mind. It seems to me that
all this love which we cherish--the vast pyramid of affection and
devotion that we build up from the day we are born--cannot be
shattered in a moment, as if it never existed. You know, sometimes I
feel that my father is with me--telling me to hold on, to have courage
and all will come right. It has helped to dispel depression, and
sometimes, when I have wakened in the middle of the night in one of
those appalling terrors that are born in dreams, I have imagined I
have seen him smiling at me. Do you think that is rubbish?”
“Why should it be? I’ll admit it has never happened to me. But that is
no argument.”
“Are you never afraid?”
“What is being afraid? I don’t quite know. I certainly get a cold
sensation down my spine when queer things happen that I can’t account
for. I suppose all fear is a kind of ignorance. Even this--this
strange demented being who so consistently eludes us--would not be in
the least fearful if we knew exactly who he was, and all about his
intentions.”
“Aren’t they the same as Niels’s?”
“That is the logical conclusion. Now you’re trembling.”
“I can’t help it,” she said. “I’m not afraid--not now, but I dread to
think of the day when you will go--for good.”
“Suppose I don’t go for good?”
“But you must. Your work lies in England, and--well, of course, our
companionship must end. I shall never be able to express my gratitude
to you and Mr. Conrad for your help, and your company when I needed it
so badly.”
“Yolande!”
There was a curious tremor in his voice, and it caused her to draw her
breath quickly.
“When I went away earlier in the evening you said that I--I had become
almost a part of your existence. Is that--quite true?”
“I--I----”
“You meant that?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me know the worst or the best now. I love you, Yolande. It
seems an impertinence to tell you after having known you for only a
month. But I can’t help myself--I love you to distraction. It isn’t
friendship--or sympathy for a woman who has suffered much. Those count
too--but love dominates them. Tell me I’m not asking--too much?”
She hung her head for a moment, and then raised it and looked straight
into his eyes, with orbs that seemed to contain a sacred fire.
“I love you too, Ralph,” she replied softly.
There in the moonlight, on the haunted terrace of the Château
Grammont, he kissed her on the lips, and thought he heard in place of
the hooting owl the carolling of celestial voices.