The Trail of the Dead/Chapter 4
IV.—THE ANONYMOUS ARTICLE.
IN my narrative of the pursuit of Professor Rudolf Marnac, it will have been observed that Fortune had been cold to us. In the incident which I now relate we were to some extent more favoured; for though our supreme object was not achieved, we were yet enabled to save the life of her who is dearest to me in all the world.
I have told you of the homicidal mania which fell upon the Professor, and of the series of events which caused my cousin, Sir Henry Graden, the eminent scientist and explorer, to be associated with a Heidelberg student, as I then was, in an effort to contrive his capture. How we failed to bring about the murderer's arrest in Poland, through the stupidity of a forest guard, I have already explained. By the time I had obtained my release, Marnac had again disappeared. A linguist well provided with money, and on all points but one perfectly sane, had no difficulty in finding refuge in the cities of Europe.
I have been in some doubt as to the best means of briefly describing the present incident. Miss Mary Weston, with whom I discussed the matter, at once offered to place her diary at my disposal. Upon its perusal I suggested that she should herself extract the necessary items, adding such introduction and explanatory notes as seemed necessary. To this she has very kindly consented; and the first portion of this remarkable story I therefore leave in her hands.
Miss Mary Weston's Narrative.
It was in the winter of 1899 that my father's health began to fail. In the May of the following year I returned from my school near Paris, and instead of entering at Girton, as my father had previously arranged, I became his secretary. I was then just eighteen. I did the very best I could, and in his dear, kind way, he made me forget my miseries at the endless blunders I committed. You see, there were only we two; for my mother died shortly after I was born, and I was their only child. We saw few people at our little house, which was on the Trumpington Road, just outside Cambridge. Ladies I met would often pity me for the dull and lonely life I led, and that used to make me very angry. We were never dull or lonely, my dear father and I.
It may seem absurd that so distinguished a man as Dr. Weston, M.A., D.Sc, F.E.S., the Regius Professor of Physic at Cambridge, should have relied on the help of a half-educated schoolgirl. But he was always pleased to say that my love and sympathy were worth far more to him in his work than if he had been served by the cleverest woman that ever headed an Honours list.
I well remember the appearance of Professor Marnac's book, "Science and Religion," which was published simultaneously in German and English at the beginning of the June of that year. My father was violently opposed to it, but I was far more concerned over the state into which it threw him than I was about the book, which, as a matter of fact, I never read. He dictated to me a most severe criticism, which at his instructions I sent to the editor of the University Review at 102a, Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London. The article was signed "Cantab," a pseudonym that my father often used, as he had the greatest objection to publicity.
About ten days after the August University appeared—that being the number which contained his article—my father received an anonymous letter. It was my duty to open and sort his correspondence, and I was thus able to intercept it. It was addressed to "Cantab," and had been forwarded, unopened, by the editor of the review. The envelope bore a German stamp, but the post-mark had been smeared and was quite indistinguishable. The letter was neatly written in English. It consisted almost entirely of the most violent personal threats against my father. The writer declared that he would soon find out "Cantab's" real name, and would suitably repay him for his slanders against the greatest scientific work of the century. I was very frightened about it, but several friends to whom I showed the letter laughed away my fears, saying it was undoubtedly the work of some madman, and advising me to burn it. This I did. I never mentioned the affair to my father, whose health was giving me great anxiety at the time.
During September my father had taken a cottage on the Cornish coast, and when the end of the Long Vacation came, the doctors forbade his return to Cambridge. I had hard work to persuade him that it was best to obey their orders; but at last he gave in, and we settled down for the winter.
The cottage was built at the foot of a low hill strewn with boulders and torn by the autumn rains. Upon its summit the chimney of an abandoned tin-mine rose against the sky like a vast flag-pole, with roofless buildings grouped around it in melancholy decay. It was always a depressing spot to me, and I rarely visited it, though the view was splendid. About half a mile before the cottage the moorland ended abruptly in a line of glorious cliffs, two hundred and fifty feet of granite and shining porphyry from brow to breaker. This was my favourite walk. I loved to crawl to the edge, that I might peer over at the reefs that sprang out from the tumbled rocks at the cliff foot like the bones of a giant's hand. I have lain thus for hours watching the great rollers advancing in that stately, inexorable march of theirs, rank following rank, until they burst in thunderous green fountains of foam. Sometimes, when a fierce wind blew from the south-west, the spray they hurled into the air would wet my face, even where I lay so infinitely far above them.
Between the cottage and the cliff the ground dipped into a little glen, or goyal, as the country-folks called it, choked with storm-twisted trees and deep with gorse and ferns. Through it ran our cart-track, winding down to the fishing village of Polleven, where the tiny, stone-roofed houses clung to a gap in the cliff wall like barnacles on a rock.
Besides my father and myself, Marjory, our cook-housekeeper, who had been with us ever since I could remember, was the only other inhabitant of the cottage. On Tuesdays and Thursdays a red-cheeked maiden, who had quite remarkable powers of breaking crockery, came to help from Polleven.
So were we living on November 27. From that date I will chiefly rely upon my diary for the details of my terrible experience. Please do not laugh at the form in which I wrote it. Mr. Harland has asked me to make no alterations, and so here it is.
Friday, Nov. 27.—I have quite an important piece of news to-day, Mr. Diary. So no more grumbles, please, about your having sunk into a weather report. Yes, sir, I have met a stranger—fancy that—a visitor, in the winter, at Polleven!
Mr. Hermann—for that is his name—has been a dabbler in science, he tells me, all his life. I shall snare him before long and lay my spoil in triumph at father's feet. Since the weather has been so bad, it has been very lonely for him indoors, poor dear, with only ignorant me for company. I am certain Mr. Hermann will be just the man for him. A good stiff talk will brighten him up wonderfully.
I chanced upon him this afternoon. He was struggling along the cliff edge in the teeth of the wind. His age should be about sixty, but he is very well preserved. He is clean-shaved and close-cropped and is altogether very neat in his appearance. His eyes behind his glasses are absurdly young, if I can so describe them. They are so active and clear that if it were not for the wrinkles above them, I should have knocked ten years off his age. He asked me the way to Polleven, and as I was bound for the village, I took him in charge. On the way he told me that he had just taken a room, at the inn there. He is writing a book, it seems, and wanted a quiet corner. He will find it at Polleven! He speaks with but a slight accent, having lived much in England, though his father was a German, as his name denotes. This was his first walk, and he seemed much impressed with the wildness of the scenery.
I told father about him at supper. He said he would be very pleased to meet him.
Saturday, Nov. 28.—I am filled with the triumph of success. Mr. Hermann and father are hard at it over their pipes in the study. They do not seem to be opposed on any big question, which is most lucky, for some very learned men get into dreadful tempers with each other when contradicted.
It is the butcher's day at Polleven, so I walked there this morning to give the orders. I met Mr. Hermann coming up from the quay. He is very fond of sailing, he said, and had engaged a small trawler and two men, so that he can have a good blow when the weather permits. He kept on rubbing his hands and beaming upon me, as if he had struck upon some new idea which pleased him. I told him I thought he had done a very sensible thing, and that in my opinion a great many clever men would write the better for a dose of fresh air taken daily. He laughed a good deal at this and complimented me on my wit. My wit! Think of that! As I knew there were plenty of chops in the house, I asked him to lunch, saying that my father, who was an invalid and could not go out much, would be delighted to make his acquaintance. He accepted at once and we walked back together.
Later.—Father says that Mr. Hermann is unusually well read, and that he had had a most interesting talk with him. Yet he did not seem very enthusiastic about him. I hope they did not quarrel. It rather spoilt my triumph. Father did not seem to have anything definite against him—only a general impression that he was a queer fellow. I think this rather absurd.
Sunday, Nov. 29.—Mr. Hermann sat behind me at church this morning. He sang the hymns in a high voice that would have been amusing under ordinary circumstances. After church he walked with me some distance up the hill. He condoled with me on my lonely life, and that always annoys me. Indeed, I am afraid I was rather rude to him about it. To make amends, I invited him to tea on Tuesday.
Monday, Nov. 30.—Father is not so well to-day. He has had more trouble with his cough, I fear, though he tries to make light of it. I wish I had not asked Mr. Hermann. I must take care that he does not see father to-morrow. The doctors were most particular in their instructions that nothing should over-excite him; I fear that the two might get into some silly argument.
Tuesday, Dec. 1.—Under this head my diary is a blank. I will try to set out the events of that day as calmly as I can. May God in His mercy help me, in His good time, to forget them!
My father seemed no worse in the morning, though by my persuasion he kept to his bed. His own room was on the ground floor—for he had been forbidden to climb stairs—and looked out upon the little garden at the back of the cottage.
Marjory had begged off for the afternoon, and I agreed, though this would leave me alone to serve my visitor. However, tea-making is no very difficult matter, and to pacify me Marjory had cooked one of her best cakes. She left shortly after two; Mr. Hermann arrived half an hour later.
I had not expected to see him so early, and was copying out some letters which my father had dictated, when he knocked at the door. As I showed him into the room, he chanced to pass the table on which they lay.
"What a beautiful hand your father writes!" he said politely.
"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Hermann," I answered.
"My dear young lady, I am too old for riddles."
"The writing is mine."
"Is that really so?" he exclaimed, with a quick, startled look at me. "I could have guaranteed that it was a man's hand. Is there nothing private here—may I examine?"
"Oh, certainly," I said. "They are letters to tradesmen."
He picked up the sheets, and moving to the window examined them closely.
"You are sure this is your writing—there is no mistake?" he said presently.
I was rather annoyed at his persistence, and, telling him curtly enough that the writing was mine, went out to get the tea. At the kitchen door was the small boy who brought us our letters and papers from Polleven. There was only one letter that afternoon, which I placed amongst the tea-cups on the tray which I was carrying to the sitting-room. As I entered, Mr. Hermann stepped forward to help me.
"I fear I am giving you a great deal of trouble," said he.
"Please don't apologise," I answered, laughing. "I always do it when our servant is out."
"As she is now?"
"Yes."
"Then you have no one in the house?"
"No one—save my father."
"Indeed! Is that so?"
He dropped into a chair by the fire and sat staring into the coals, his chin resting on his hand. Certainly his behaviour was extremely odd that afternoon. As he did not speak, I opened the envelope, which was addressed to my father. It contained a second letter, and a short note from the editor of the University, stating that a person of the name of Sir Henry Graden had called for "Cantab's" address, and inquiring whether he might have permission to disclose it. He forwarded, he added, a letter from Sir Henry, which, as he believed, contained an explanation of this request.
I have the original letter before me now. This is how it runs:—
"Jerrold's Hotel,
"Strand, London, W.C."To 'Cantab.'
"My Dear Sir,—As Mr. Rolles, the editor of the University Review, has not seen fit to inform me of your name and present address, I have written this letter on the understanding that it will be forwarded to you immediately. I should much have preferred to explain the matter personally, but as I may not receive your answer for several days, I dare not delay. It is my duty to inform you that Professor Rudolf Marnac, of the University of Heidelberg, is now a fugitive from the police. The charge against him is one of murder. I know that the man is guilty; I believe him to be the victim of a homicidal mania.
"His mania is of an unusual type, being directed solely against his scientific opponents. In the University Review of August last you criticised his book with extreme severity. He saw that number, for I have in my possession a copy of the article covered with the most dangerous threats against you in his own handwriting. Two distinguished scientists. Von Stockmar of Heidelberg, and Mechersky of St. Petersburg, who similarly attacked him in the papers, have already fallen victims to his extraordinary cunning. You will observe, sir, the logical conclusion. Until he is captured you will be in danger.
"For your personal information I may tell you that he is a man of over sixty years of age. When last seen he had a long beard which was of a silky white. He wears glasses, but his eyes are unusually keen and intelligent. His hands are small and beautifully made, his finger-nails being apparently manicured. In whatever disguise he may assume, he will probably continue to keep them in good condition. He may change his appearance in many ways; but if you are in doubt of any pleasant stranger, I beg you to note his hands.
"On the receipt of your answer I am prepared to come to you at once. I shall then be able to give you further particulars.
"I beg you not to disregard this warning, and until you see me to be most careful in your movements. Of course, if your pseudonym is an absolute secret, you will be safe enough. But there are always chances.
"Sincerely yours,
"Henry Graden (Bart.)."
I glanced up cautiously. Mr. Hermann still sat huddled in his seat by the fire. One of his hands I could see clearly, for it lay upon the arm of his chair. It was small as a woman's, and the nails had received so fine a polish that they shone pinkly in the firelight!
A wild terror clutched at my throat, so that for a space I sat dumb and motionless, gasping for breath. But then there came to me the realisation of the purpose for which this man had come, and at the thought of it my blood came surging back into alert activity. There may be many an English girl who loves her father as dearly as I do mine, but there is never one of them that loves him more. I can say honestly that after that first great shock of fear my mind was swept clean of my own danger. For my father I was ready to meet Death on his own ground, at his own terms, and try the issue.
And yet my first act was one of such folly that I can hardly bring myself to set it down. Perhaps it was that the words of the letter were rioting in my head; perhaps that my whole will was centred in an effort to control the tones of my voice.
"Do you take sugar in your tea, Professor Marnac?"
That was what I said to him.
It was out, and I could not recall it. As he rose, I sprang back, placing the table between us. A cup, caught by my skirt, smashed loudly on the floor. So we stood watching each other.
He showed no sign of anger. Only the expression of his eyes had changed to a cold, sneering insolence that was a most dreadful thing to see in so old a man.
"I observe, dear lady, that you hold a letter in your hand," said he, without a harsh note in his musical voice. "May I suggest that it contained the discovery which you so very incautiously have announced?"
"I shall answer no questions."
"If you will consider, dear lady, you will perceive that you merely waste time. Tell me—do you know the object of my visit?"
I hesitated a moment. Was there anything to be gained by pretending ignorance? None, so far as I could see.
"So I imagine," I replied.
"You relieve me of a load of explanations. There is, however, one point on which I myself desire information. Through the courtesy of the editor—or assistant editor—of that admirable periodical, the University Review, I was allowed a glimpse of the manuscript of an article signed 'Cantab.' It was a scurrilous effort, dictated by the meanest jealousy. It was designed to destroy my book—my book which is my life's work—do you understand?—my whole life's work."
His voice rose to his last words till it ended in a shriek of passion.
"Well, and what of that article?" I answered boldly.
My question calmed him in an instant. There was a crafty leer in his eyes as he spoke again.
"Of course, it was your father's. No sentence it contained was unworthy of so scholarly a pen. But why, dear lady, why was the original MSS. in your hand?"
"My father had nothing whatever to do with it," I said, speaking very slowly and distinctly. "I wrote it myself."
"You!" he cried, staring at me. "You wrote it?"
"Certainly. Do you think me incapable? If so, I direct your attention to the record of the Honours that I took at Cambridge."
If ever a lie be pardoned, may I not claim mercy for this of mine?
"Will you swear this to me?"
"Why not? I am not ashamed of my work."
He stood staring at the table in front of him for some moments, his hands pressed to his head.
"She must suffer, then," he muttered. "But if I had known! A girl—it was hardly worth the trouble."
"Don't you think you had better go back to your inn?" I suggested.
"Not until we have settled our little account together, dear lady. You are young, yet young vipers can sting. Is it not better at once to put an end to their powers of mischief?"
"Yet the young can run where the old cannot follow. I am nearer the door than you. At your first movement I shall be clear of the house."
"And leave your father as a hostage?"
His words struck me like a blow. I swayed forward, gripping the table with both hands. He could have seized me then if he had wished; but he knew I was in his power, and held away.
"Do not forget that, dear lady," he continued; "it must be either you or him. There is no way of escape for both, I am afraid."
I am writing down the facts as they occurred. I desire no credit for following my duty. What I did then, many thousands of girls would do to-day. For there remained no way out of the pit into which we had fallen—my father and I—save one, and that I accepted gladly, readily.
"Then take me," I said to him.
"You have sadly upset my little arrangements. I had not thought of so fair an offender. Let me see." He paused, softly rubbing his chin.
There was a cat-like gratification about the creature as he stood glancing at me from time to time, with a smile flickering on his thin lips; and all the while my soul was searching, searching for the way of escape that I could not find.
"On the whole, it is the happiest plan," he said suddenly, with a little sigh of relief. "Let us make a move to the front door."
The sun was dropping to the western sea in angry banks of cloud. His rays shone so strongly in our faces that I had to shade my eyes as he pointed out the manner in which death should come to me.
"You are a strong, brave girl," he said with a little bow, "or I would not suggest so novel a scheme. I shall sit here in the-porch and watch you as you walk over the moor, down into the little valley, up again, and so to the cliff edge. After a time for suitable meditation—let us say two minutes—you will step off into eternity. Do not fear, it is an easy method of putting an end to an infinity of troubles .… Keep back! keep back, I say!"
He was an old man, and it was worth the effort. But as I sprang towards him, he whipped out a revolver from his pocket, and I shrank away from the black ring pointed at my chest.
"Such folly is not what I should have expected from Miss Weston," he continued. "Should you cause me to kill you, I shall certainly not spare your father. And why should two suffer for the fault of one?"
"How am I to know that even if I accept this that you offer, you will let him go unharmed?" I cried.
"On my word of honour, I will not hurt a hair of his head."
"Your word of honour!"
"Do you doubt me, mademoiselle?" he shouted, flaring up into another burst of passion. "I come of an honourable house, a house that served its kings in many wars before the Revolution destroyed us. I am no pig of a German; I am a Marnac of Toulouse, mademoiselle, and we hold to our word though we are torn in pieces."
"But how can you, a gentleman, drive an innocent girl to so frightful a death?" I pleaded with him.
"Innocent? Did you not write that article?" He spoke eagerly, with a glance of keen suspicion.
"Yes. I wrote it."
"Then go. Remember, I wait and I watch. If you fear to do this thing, yes, even if you hesitate too long over there upon the cliff edge, I shall kill your father."
Without another word I began to walk down the sloping moor towards the sea.
•••••
I have asked Miss Mary Weston to end her narrative at this point. I think it better that I should now take up the threads of the story.
After Marnac's escape from Poland, Sir Henry Graden and I travelled to Berlin. There we carefully examined the book of extracts which had come into our hands, and sent warning letters to those writers who from the marginal notes seemed to have especially roused this madman's anger against them. The extreme animosity which was evinced against "Cantab's" article in the University Review especially alarmed us for the author's safety. Finally we determined to proceed to London, discover his identity, and take the necessary steps for his safety. Distasteful as was this detective business to a man of my studious habits, I nevertheless felt that it was my duty to assist my cousin in hunting down the murderer.
It was on the evening of Sunday, November 29th, that we arrived at Charing Cross Station, from which we removed to the morose respectability of Jerrold's Hotel. At eleven on the following morning we were ushered by a buttony boy into the editorial sanctum of the University Review.
Mr. Rolles—for such we had discovered was the name of the editor—remained seated before his American roller-top desk. He was a very large and sleek young man, with plump cheeks of a dingy colour, and pince-nez glasses which he wore half-way down his nose. His general appearance was suggestive of a capacity for plum-duff and sugar-water, and he oozed self-appreciation from every pore.
"And what can I do for you?" he inquired, with a sedate patronage.
"In the month of August," said my cousin, declining the chair that Mr. Rolles suggested, "you published an article signed 'Cantab,' dealing with a book written by Professor Marnac, of Heidelberg."
"Most certainly. Pray proceed."
"For the most urgent private reasons I desire 'Cantab's' name and address."
"Which I cannot give you," said Mr. Rolles, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette.
My cousin walked up to the editorial desk and spoke down upon him.
"From my card, sir, which I perceive you have before you, you can judge that I am a respectable person."
"Perhaps, perhaps," smiled Mr. Rolles; "but nowadays even baronets, you know, are—well, not always worthy of such implicit confidence as you demand."
I saw the right hand of my cousin steal out towards the editorial collar, but he restrained himself.
"You reduce me, sir, to speak of myself with less good taste than modesty," he said. "Have you never heard of my name as an explorer or a scientist?"
"Very often, my dear Sir Henry; though even for so distinguished a light I cannot break my most sacred rule. If you choose to write to 'Cantab,' I will forward the letter. Further I cannot go."
I don't think that Mr. Rolles will ever realise how near he came to a thorough trouncing. For a moment my cousin, so to speak, hung in the wind. Then he drew up a chair and sat down at the corner of the desk.
"I will accept your offer, sir," said he. "Give me a blank sheet of paper."
The letter written, it was handed over to Mr. Rolles, who gave us his word that it should go by the next post. Then we retired into the street.
My cousin was simply unbearable that day. He was always impatient of delay; but in all our wanderings together I have never suffered from him more acutely. He dragged me aimlessly about the streets, set me down to lunch at a comfortable restaurant, and then swept me off before the coffee arrived. I endeavoured to escape him, but the attempt was a hopeless failure. Five o'clock was striking when he turned his face eastward—he had been inquiring for letters at the Travellers', in Pall Mall—and, with his most unwilling companion trotting beside him, again advanced on Covent Garden, near which the office of the University was situated.
"I'm hanged if I can stand this suspense!" he explained. "Marnac has had five or six days' start of us, and anything may be happening. If that idiot Rolles still refuses the address, I will thrash him till he gives it up, and take the consequences."
He meant what he said—he always did—and I followed him, with unpleasant visions of a summons at Bow Street and caustic paragraphs in the evening papers.
But we were in luck. Mr. Rolles had retired to the Athenæum for his tea, and in the assistant editor, who received us, I recognised an old acquaintance. He was a clever young Scot named Raeburn, who had lived on my staircase at Cambridge, and rowed bow to my two in the college eight. He appeared delighted to see me, and became duly impressed when I introduced him to my distinguished cousin.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked me, after a few minutes of the conversation usual in such circumstances.
Evidently he had no knowledge of our previous visit.
"Sir Henry here is anxious for the name and address of 'Cantab.' You will recollect the man I mean; he contributed an article to your August number."
"Well, it's against all the rules; but, of course, with you it doesn't matter. He is Dr. Weston, the Regius Professor of Physic at Cambridge. The old gentleman has been very seedy, I hear, and is down at Polleven, on the Cornish coast, for the winter. That article seems to have attracted a lot of attention. I had an old fellow here kicking up a fuss about it less than a week ago."
"What did he want to know?" broke in Graden sharply.
"It was a long rigmarole of a story, but it boiled down to this: that we were charged with hopelessly misprinting Dr. Weston's MSS. To get rid of the old boy, I sent up for the original copy of the article and showed it to him. He went away quite satisfied after that."
"Did he mention Dr. Weston's name?"
"No. That is—I"
"Did you?"
"Yes, I believe I did. But I took it that he knew it already. Hallo! Anything wrong?"
Raeburn has since admitted his doubts as to our sanity: for without another word my cousin rushed from the room, and I followed at his heels.
From the Review office to our hotel was no great distance, and this we ran, regardless of the indignation of jostled wayfarers. My cousin plunged into the smoking-room and seized a Bradshaw. I looked over his shoulder with an equal excitement. The next express from Paddington was at midnight, and it was timed to arrive at the nearest station to Polleven that the map showed us by twelve-thirty the following morning. But that village itself was distant by road a good fifteen miles from the station. With Cornish hills we should be lucky if we arrived there by three in the afternoon. The Postal Guide informed us that our letter of warning would be delivered about twelve o'clock next day. A telegram—for there was no wire to Polleven—would scarcely arrive earlier. There was nothing more to be done.
It was, indeed, shortly before three o'clock that our carriage groaned and screeched its way down the steep descent into Polleven village. At the inn we soon discovered the direction of Dr. Weston's cottage, and taking the advice of the landlord as to the roughness of the track thither, we left our carriage and started off on foot. After a stiff climb of three-quarters of a mile between rugged cart-ruts running with water from the winter springs, we emerged into a little glen, sparsely wooded. At the further end, built on the higher ground, we caught a momentary glimpse of a building which we took to be the place we sought. From our right, low, booming reverberations told of distant breakers on a rock-bound coast.
It was I who first saw her, a glimpse of white amongst the bare skeletons of the stunted trees. Then at the turn of the path we met her. Her face was pale as fine linen, her eyes fixed and glassy, her arms with her clenched hands rigid by her sides. She might have been the ghost of some great lady who had died by cruel wrong. So blindly did she walk that I believe she would have passed us if Graden had not sprung forward and barred her way.
She woke as a sleep-walker wakes, with a shuddering surprise. "Who are you?" she asked faintly. If she had not grasped the branch of a tree, I think she would have fallen.
"Are you a relation of Dr. Weston's?" asked Graden very softly and kindly.
"His daughter."
"And you go?"
"To kill myself. Oh, no!" she burst out as we sprang forward. "It is no good! You cannot help me. The devil sits in the porch, waiting and watching. If I delay, he will kill—my father—my poor old father, who is so ill! Let me go—to the cliff—let me go, I say!"
Graden slipped his arm round her waist, and from his great height looked down at her with those honest blue eyes of his that made every child his friend at once.
"I am old enough to be your father, dear," he said. "You can trust me, can't you? Yes, yes, I knew it. Now tell me—what have you to do?"
"He is waiting in the porch," she answered him. "If he doesn't see me throw myself over the cliffs, he will kill father."
"Could he see us coming by the path which brought you here?"
"Oh, yes: above this glen it is open moor right up to the cottage."
"Is there a way to the back of the house?"
"Yes; but there is no time."
"That is foolish talk. Come, tell me."
"About two hundred yards back on the track you followed here there is a little spring amongst the rushes. There is a path, a short cut which the boys from the village sometimes take that leads into the clump of firs by the garden wall. The wall is quite low—and then—oh! then—you could get straight into father's room. It is on the ground floor; the room on the left as you open the back door. You could lock the door and defy the other man."
"Now listen to me, dear," said Graden. "You must walk on very, very slowly. Take all the time you can. At the cliff top make several starts as if you would jump, but feared. Mind that you do not go too near the edge. And so in ten minutes come home. We will meet you, and all will be well—at least, for your father," he added grimly.
"I understand," she answered simply, and walked on.
It was a wild rush that we made. We found the spring, and turning to our right crashed into the thicket—for the "path" was a courtesy title. The hanging scrub brushed our faces, in the open patches the dead gorse dug its spines into our knees. We quickened our pace in the more open fir-wood, vaulted the four-foot wall of the little garden, and, panting like exhausted hounds, ran furiously upon the house. There was no time for dodging and crawling. It was a forlorn hope we led.
And Dr. Weston was alive.
He sat amongst his pillows, a great book upon his knees, gazing over his spectacles with the most profound amazement on his kindly old face at the two dishevelled strangers who burst in upon him. Leaving me to guard and quiet him—for, indeed, the shock might prove most dangerous—Graden dashed out on his errand of vengeance. Two minutes later I heard him call, and breaking off the excuses that I was inventing, I ran through the house to join him.
Miss Weston and he were standing before the porch—alone. She was leaning on his arm, panting from great exertion.
"Think of it, Robert!" cried my cousin, "He chased her—the devil followed and chased her!"
"How is my father?" she faltered. "Is he—as this gentleman says—quite unharmed?"
"Quite safe, I assure you," I answered.
"I must go to him."
"One moment, Miss Weston," said my cousin. "We have yet a duty to the public safety. Which way has the man run?"
She told her story quickly. After she had left us and gained the cliff turf above the glen, she glanced back. To her surprise, she caught a glimpse of him standing amongst the trees on the opposite slope. Her delay had aroused his suspicions, and he had followed her. She walked slowly forward and, as we had directed, moved uneasily about on the verge of the precipice. Presently she again glanced over her shoulder. He had now crossed the glen and was standing in the open watching her. The distance between them was about two hundred yards. She knew that we must have nearly reached the cottage, and that if he had not already attacked her father, there was no further danger. So she started to run along the coast. He shouted and drew his revolver; but either he thought the distance too great, or he feared the noise of the report, for he did not fire. But her action evidently puzzled him, seeing that it left her father completely at his mercy. He did not pursue her far, but instead turned and gazed intently at the cottage. On her part, she also stopped running to watch him. From where they stood the garden was fully exposed, and at that moment our forms appeared as we vaulted the low wall. At which sight, Miss Weston said, he gave a most horrible scream, shaking his fists towards us and filling the air with imprecations. Then, without further noticing her, he set off towards the town. For herself, she came back as fast as she could run, meeting Graden before the door. She added some useful particulars as to his alias and his residence at the inn.
And so, her story ended, the brave girl passed into the house, while we dashed away in pursuit. My cousin, stuck to his work most manfully; but age will tell, and I was a minute to the good when I stumbled into the parlour of the inn. They had not seen Mr. Hermann, they told me, since lunch-time; perhaps he was down at his boat.
"Boat—what boat?" I gasped.
"Why, zur," said the landlord's wife, grinning at my eagerness, "the guid gentleman be mighty vond o' zailing, an' he hath hired Mark Pennyfold's noo trawler, the Agnes Jane, for a matter o' two months. And now I comes to think on it, I did hear Mark zay as how he an' his zun were going out with Maister Hermann betwixt dree an' vour o'clock."
I ran down the narrow street towards the quay, between the quaint old cottages, with their fish stretched out to dry, and their nets, fishing-boots, and gear tumbled before the door-sills. As I reached the little breakwater, the sun, low on the west horizon, was throwing great golden streamers through gaps in the purple clouds that were piled as high as if a cataclysm of Nature had set the Andes on the Himalayas. From their feet came gusts of wind, fierce and icy cold. Even to my shore-going eyes it threatened dirty weather.
But I had no time for cloud effects. There, fair in the glittering path that the sun had daubed upon the waters, a red-sailed fishing-boat was running close-hauled to the sou'-westward.
"What boat is that?" I asked a lad who lounged against a mooring-post at my elbow.
"That, maister—whoi, it be Mark Pennyfold's Agnes Jane, 'er as was 'ired by the stranger from Lunnon, 'Ermann by name."
A hand fell on my shoulder. It was Graden's. He had heard and understood. And so we two stood together watching the red sails fade slowly into the gathering haze of the night and the storm.
* Copyright, 1903, by B. Fletcher Robinson and J. Malcolm Fraser, in the United States of America.