NEDL TRANSFER
HN 1PAS I
THE BLACK
MOTOR CAR
HARRIS BURLAND


s
5601








The
BLACK MOTOR CAR









They sprang apart and, turning around, confronted the Earl of Heatherstone.
Frontispiece. Page 164
-
-
-
-








The
Black Motor Car
By
HARRIS BURLAND
Author of "Dacobra,” “The Princess Thora," Etc.

Nlustrations by
CHARLES GRUNWALD
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK


KD 5601
HARVARD
COLLERS
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
HARRIS BURLAND
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
Issued March, 1905


CONTENTS
PAGE
****
CHAPTER
1. THE TEMPTRESS ........... 9
II. THE HAND OF THE DEAD.......
III. THE BREAKING OF THE CHAIN.
IV. A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE ....
V. HEATHERSTONE HALL .....
VI. MR. ARTHUR HOLME ....
VII. THE RED HOUSE .....
VIII. “RICHARD BEHAG IS DEAD"
IX. New FRIENDSHIPS ....
X. A BURIED PALACE ...
XI. A RUINED MAN .....
XII. THE DOWNWARD STEP . .......
XIII. NEWS FROM VALPARAISO ........ 132
XIV. WHAT JERMY FOUND IN THE CREEK ...
144
XV. LOVE's BITTERNESS ......... 157
XVI. THE TRAP ............. 169
XVII. THE COUNTESS OF HEATHERSTONE ..
XVIII. FACE TO FACE. ........... 188
XIX. AN INQUISITION ........... 199
XX. AN ESCAPED PRISONER .
XXI. HUE AND CRY.....
XXII. THE SCOURGE ........
XXIII. NORTHWARD
XXIII. NORTHWARD ..
. . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
XXIV. WILLIAM LIPP OF UP WITHING .... 244
XXV. THE LONG ROAD........... 253


Contents
CHAPTER
PAGE
XXVI. THE TOMB .............. 262
XXVII. JORDISON'S RETREAT ......... 274
XXVIII. JORDISON LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST 284
XXIX. THE MYSTERY OF THE Pajarito . ... 294
XXX. “VENGEANCE IS MINE" .......
XXXI. THE LAST RIDE ........... 318
XXXII. THE ROAD ON THE SANDS, ..... 329
308


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
They sprang apart and, turning around, confronted the Earl
of Heatherstone .........Frontispiece
164
39
“Go, I tell you, you cur,” and she pointed to the door..
The next second they were upon their victim . .....
He was gagged, bound hand and foot, and carried to the
Red House · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Jordison caught her wrist and pulled her back ...
Drive as he would-he could not shake them off.....
325





THE BLACK MOTOR-CAR
CHAPTER I
THE TEMPTRESS
Mrs. de la Mothe sat alone in her pretty drawing-
room in Kensington. A single standard lamp with a
fluffy pink shade threw a rose-coloured light on her face.
A book lay open on her knees, but it was evident that
her thoughts were far away from its contents. She was
twining her hands together nervously, and the jewelled
rings flashed on her thin white fingers. Every now
and then she looked at the little ormolu clock on the
mantelpiece.
Marie de la Mothe was a beautiful woman; there
were those who thought her the most beautiful woman
in the whole wide world. She was not yet thirty, and
the contour of her head and features had been pro-
nounced by the most eminent sculptor of the day to be
perfect. On this particular evening they seemed almost
too perfecttoo “icily regular, splendidly null.” The
face was motionless, save for the large restless eyes, as
still as though it had been cut out of a block of marble.
She was wont to move through the world with that cold,


10
The Black Motor-Car
white face. Yet more than one man could tell to his
cost how it had softened, and how the tender glow of
love had crept into the flashing eyes; aye, and could
tell, too, how the features had hardened again as he had
pleaded in vain and poured out wild words from a
broken heart.
And Marie de la Mothe's vocation in life was to play
with hearts, and break her toys when they ceased to
amuse her or when they ceased to be profitable. She
had been a widow for five years.
Some said that Mr. de la Mothe was still alive; others
took him on trust; a few were rather doubtful whether he
had ever existed at all. But all agreed on one point—that
his widow cherished no particular affection for his mem-
ory. She knew the world's opinion of her, and smiled
on it contemptuously.
In one sense of the word Mrs. de la Mothe was a
“good woman.” Mrs. Grundy, in whose eyes there is
only one kind of virtue, could have inspected her book
of life and found therein no blot of any serious conse-
quence. But judged by a higher and less narrow stand-
ard of morality this beautiful woman was bad to the
very core. She had never erred through love, yet many
had erred through love of her. She moved on, calm and
scatheless, through a storm of passions and left behind
her a broad track of misery and despair, and even death.
There was no sound in the room but the soft splut-
tering of the fire in the grate and the ticking of the clock
on the mantelpiece. The door opened, and a neat maid-
servant brought in tea. Mrs. de la Mothe rose and


The Temptress
II
went over to the window. The rain pattered against
the glass. It was a miserable November afternoon. A
dull yellow mist shrouded the square on the other side
of the road. A line of iron railings and a few gaunt,
leafless trees loomed out in the light of the street-lamps.
The pavement glistened, and everything seemed to drip
as though it had been bathed in tears.
She turned away from the melancholy spectacle and
regarded the tea-table with satisfaction. It was like
looking from a vision of death to all that made life
worth living.
"Draw the blinds and curtains, Lucy,” she said
quietly, crossing over to the fireside and settling herself
in a low chair.
The maid shut out the last dim light of the miserable
autumn day, and, moving to the door, stood there as
though expecting some further orders.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. de la Mothe said mechanically.
“Tell Mrs. Mixon that tea is ready."
In scarcely more than a minute Mrs. Mixon appeared.
She was a lady of about fifty and rustled like a withered
leaf. In appearance she was tall, angular, and formida-
ble, the personification of respectability, a chaperon
par excellence, paid in proportion to her severity.
Yet in reality she was a creature as mild as milk, a
household drudge, whose work was less noble than that
of the scullery maid; for she had to pretend to be that
which she could never be the stern guardian of Mrs.
de la Mothe.
She sat down by the tea-table and discoursed with


12
The Black Motor-Car
feeble persistence. Her employer did not trouble to
answer her with more than an interrogative “Yes” or
“No," and whenever the conversation grew too brisk
she offered her a piece of cake or bread-and-butter. In
all cases this proved an effective remedy. Mrs. Mixon
ate heartily, and, of course, she could not speak when
her mouth was full.
Suddenly there came a violent ring at the bell, and a
faint flush came to Mrs. de la Mothe's white cheek.
Mrs. Mixon stopped with a piece of cake held close to
her mouth, and listened as though she hoped to recog-
nise some voice.
“Whoever can that be, my dear?" she murmured.
The young widow did not reply, but her eyes flashed,
and Mrs. Mixon hurriedly thrust the cake into her
mouth and took a long gulp of tea.
A few moments passed, and footsteps were heard on
the stairs, and the maid ushered a young man into the
room. He stood for a moment on the threshold, and
frowned slightly as he saw Mrs. Mixon. Then he ad-
vanced, smiled, and shook hands with the two ladies.
“You're just in time for some tea, Mr. Porteous,”
Mrs. de la Mothe said sweetly. "I forget; do you
take sugar?”
“No sugar, thanks,” the young man replied, seating
himself wearily on a straight-backed chair, and laying
his hat and gloves on the floor.
“Would you rather have a whisky-and-soda ?" she
asked. “Yes, I know you would. Just touch the bell."
He laughed, and pressed a small button on the right


The Temptress
13
of the fireplace. Mrs. Mixon's face was a study in sev-
eral subdued shades of disapproval. She had her own
opinion of young men who drank whisky-and-soda for
tea.
When the servant had brought in a tumbler, a siphon
of soda, and a small decanter of whisky, John Porteous
poured himself out a drink, and gulped down half of it
at a single draught. Mrs. Mixon made a mental note
that it was a very strong concoction, even for a young
man who was, in her opinion, a confirmed drunkard.
Mrs. de la Mothe noticed that the hand trembled as he
raised the glass to his lips, and a faint smile of satisfac-
tion crossed her face.
Jack Porteous, the manager of the South Kensington
branch of Hetherington's bank, was a tall, bearded,
broad-shouldered young fellow of thirty-one, who had
risen to his present position by sheer hard work and an
extraordinary capacity for management and organisa-
tion. His face was deeply lined for so young a man,
and those who said that he was scarcely old enough to
be in his present position were ignorant of the fact that
for the last eight years he had compressed work of two
years into every twelve months.
The face was a handsome one, but it was not a pleas-
ant face to look upon, even when it had brightened some-
what after the long draught of whisky-and-soda. A
close observer would have said it was the face of a man
who had sold all happiness for the sake of success. Yet
one woman knew that Jack Porteous was willing to bar-
ter all success for love, and that the strong principles


14
The Black Motor-Car
which had bound him for a lifetime were threads that
she could snap at touch.
The three talked of commonplace subjects, and Mrs.
Mixon was by courtesy allowed to monopolise as much
of the conversation as she chose. She turned it to
theatrical matters.
The other two lit cigarettes, and only occasionally
expressed a remark. At last Mrs. Mixon caught her
employer's eye, and, rising to her feet, expressed a desire
to find something that she was sure would interest Mr.
Porteous; some old programmes of Drury Lane in
1852. She laboriously explained that they were at the
bottom of a large trunk, but that they were things that
every young man should see. She asked to be excused.
The others raised no objection, Mr. Porteous suggest-
ing that he would be delighted to see anything Mrs.
Mixon might possess relating to the theatre. She left
the room, closing the door behind her, and feeling that
she was earning every penny of the salary Mrs. de la
Mothe paid her.
When she had gone Jack Porteous crossed over to
the young widow's side, and, seizing her hands in his,
pressed them passionately to his lips.
"Marie,” he said hoarsely. She leaned a little for-
ward and looked into his eyes. The cold mask had
fallen from her features, and her whole face glowed
with a tender light. It was now easy to understand
why some men bad called her the most beautiful woman
in all the world.
"Jack,” she whispered in a low voice, “my dear old


The Temptress
15
Jack," and drawing her hands from his she placed them
on his forehead and smoothed back the hair from his
brow.
He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately.
Then he suddenly started back as though he had been
stung, and buried his face in his hands. The woman
leaned back in her chair and frowned.
In fifty previous cases the movement of disgust would
have been a source of pleasure to her cruel mind. It
denoted the agony of the victim.
But in this particular case Marie de la Mothe had
met her match. She had played with love for her own
ends, and had conquered. But the battle had been a
Pyrrhic victory. She had lost more than she had
gained. For the first time in life she was in love, and
the knowledge was bitterness to her.
“Well,” she said coldly after a pause.
The man lifted his face from his hands. It was hag-
gard and drawn and there were deep lines of pain
around the firm mouth. He recovered himself and
laughed.
“It's all right,” he said in a low voice. “I have them
here,” and he tapped the breast pocket of his coat.
The woman smiled and held out her hand. He drew
out a thick roll of notes and counted them.
"Fifty,” he said mechanically, “of a hundred pounds
each.”
She took them from him and turned them over one
by one.
“How long have we got?” she asked abruptly.


16
The Black Motor-Car
The
"Perhaps a week,” he replied. “Perhaps two or
three days; perhaps a bare twenty-four hours."
“They must be turned into gold,” she said, “or notes
of smaller value.”
She handed the packet back to him. He replaced
them in his pocket, and, lighting another cigarette,
looked away from her to the fire.
“How much have you-have you lent me up to now?"
she asked.
“Six thousand three hundred and fifty-five pounds,”
he replied, still watching the glowing coals.
"You are exact,” she said sarcastically. “You evi-
dently have the figures at your finger-ends."
"I am likely to remember the figures,” he answered;
"every penny has to be accounted for in some way or
other.”
“Have you included the interest?"
“You have paid me the interest up to date," he an-
swered.
She flushed and rose to her feet imperiously.
“Do you think my love is to be bought?" she cried.
"I tell you a millionaire has tried to buy it before now,
but he has not had enough money to do so. It certainly
could not be bought by you, Jack Porteous.”
"No, no,” he answered hastily, rising and crossing to
her side. “I did not mean that, Marie. I know that
you love me. I know that, at any rate, or I would not
-oh, my God, you do not realise yet what it means.”
She laid her hand upon his arm and looked up into
his face.


The Temptress
17
S
“I realise what it means," she said slowly, “and I
am going to repay you. You must leave England the
day after to-morrow.”
“The day after to-morrow?”.
“Yes, you must make some excuse-illness, death in
the family, anything; but you must leave the day after
to-morrow. I have taken you a berth on the Oroquoya
for Buenos Ayres. Your name is Mr. Hubert Baring."
“But you?”
“I will follow by the next boat a fortnight later. I
will join you at the Hôtel Andalusia in Buenos Ayres.
Wait for me there. Give me five hundred pounds. I
have a few things to settle up before I leave England.
Your ticket has taken all my spare cash.”
He counted out the notes and handed them to
her.
She came toward him, and, placing her arms around
his neck, looked pleadingly into his face. He caught
her face between his two strong hands, and gazed earn-
estly into it as though trying to read the truth from her
eyes. Then he kissed her passionately.
"I will come, dearest,” he said.
She went over to an escritoire, and, taking out an
envelope, handed it to him. It was his ticket to Buenos
Ayres. He put it in his pocket.
He was like a child in her hands. His career, his
honour, his self-respect, were all at her feet, and she had
trampled them in the mud. Yet, while she was in his
arms, he thought all the world well lost for love.
“You will go the day after to-morrow?” she whis-


18
The Black Motor-Car
pered. “O heavens, if it should be too late—at any rate,
you can conceal yourself till the ship starts. You will,
of course, disguise yourself?”.
"Yes," he replied, "I shall disguise myself. I shall
shave off my beard and moustache.”
"And your wife?” she said in a low, hard voice.
He turned away from her and his face whitened.
“My wife?” he repeated slowly, “my wife! Oh, she
will be glad.” And he laughed. “Her life has been a
hell. She has money of her own. She will not starve,
but- "
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
She knew what was in his mind. A child branded with
its father's shame. She did not wish to hear of it.
She tried to stifle the words upon his lips. But he
loosed himself gently from her clasp and looked hesi-
tatingly at the door.
“He is too young to know,” she said. “They will
keep it from him. Why do you think of him? Do you
think I am giving up nothing? Have you a thought for
me? You are selfish, Jack, selfish. It is my position
that should trouble you, not— ".
“I shall marry you," he said, and a tender glow of
love came into his face. “My darling, I am a brute.
You are all the world to me. What else matters so long
as you are mine?”
And again he kissed her, and yet again.
A footstep and the rustling of silk were heard in the
passage outside. They sprang apart and he seized his
hat and gloves as the door opened. Mrs. Mixon


The Temptress
19
entered. She looked at both of them, but could read
nothing from their faces. Jack Porteous had appar-
ently risen to say "Good-bye.”
She produced half a dozen mouldy playbills. He
took them from her with a show of interest, and ran his
eye over the names. She insisted on his sitting down,
and proceeded to give a graphic account of every per-
formance, describing the actors and actresses with such
minuteness of detail that it almost seemed as though
they were her dearest friends.
Mrs. de la Mothe yawned and closed her eyes.
At last Jack Porteous took advantage of a break in
these reminiscences, and said he feared he would have
to go. He rose, and said “Good-bye” to Mrs. Mixon.
She still had two whole programmes that required ex-
planation and comment. He agreed to call again at an
early date, and still further augment his theatrical
knowledge of the early fifties.
Mrs. de la Mothe accompanied him to the hall door.
She held out her hand, and he raised it to his lips.
“Good-bye, dearest,” he said. “I shall go on board
the Oroquoya the day after to-morrow. You will find
me at the Hôtel Andalusia in Buenos Ayres.”
"I will not fail you, Jack,” she answered. “Good-
bye, darling! Be careful for my sake.”
“I will be careful,” he said slowly, "for your
sake."
Then he looked around the empty hall, and kissed
her once on the lips. “Till we meet again,” he said,
hoarsely—“till we meet again!”


20
The Black Motor-Car
Then he opened the door and passed out into the
darkness.
Mrs. de la Mothe watched his tall figure disappear
through the curtain of mist and rain. Then she re-
turned to the drawing-room, and there in the firelight
she planned out a fairy edifice of future happiness,
where all the world would be glad with love. The sor-
did past had faded from her mind, and, looking for-
ward, she only saw the glorious sunrise of a new life in
a new land.
Little did she dream what fate had in store for both
of them. She did not remember that the wages of sin
is death.


CHAPTER II
THE HAND OF THE DEAD
When Jack Porteous had gone a dozen yards he
looked back through the fog and saw a dark figure sil-
houetted against a patch of lights. Then he heard the
hall-door close, and, turning up the collar of his coat,
he trudged homeward along the wet pavement.
Every now and then two bright yellow eyes came out
of the mist and glared at him, and a husky voice hailed
him from the darkness. But he turned a deaf ear to
the persuasions of the cabmen, and continued his course
on foot. He needed physical exercise. His brain was
a whirlpool of tumultuous thoughts, and he did not wish
to be alone with them in the quiet of a hansom. He
liked to feel the rain against his face and to grope his
way through the cold fog unaided. The very physical
discomfort was a tonic to his overwrought nerves.
But nothing could subdue the fire that was burning
in his brain. The present was a confusion of wild joy
and vain regret. The future was uncertain-now
bright with hope, now dark with fear. The past alone
was definite-a clearly cut record of dishonour and in-
fidelity.
He saw it all before him. The sordid dulness of his
home life. The daily quarrels with his wife. The first
21


22
The Black Motor-Car
meeting with Mrs. de la Mothe. The fascination of the
woman. The desire to save her from being turned out
penniless into the streets. The first theft. The con-
tinual cry for money on some pretext or other. The
other thefts, made easy by the responsibility of his po-
sition. The gradual passing of friendship into love.
The climax-reached on that very night. How clearly
he saw it all! How plain was the disgrace of it all; and
yet-he felt that he had received more than he had
given.
At last he reached his own home. The very exterior,
solid, dingy, and respectable, was repulsive to him.
In his present mood it seemed to him that he was like a
man who, stumbling through the darkness and seeking
for light, has suddenly run crash into a blank wall. He
paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the pillared
portico, and stood irresolute. A light shone in a bed-
room window on the second floor. The rest of the
house was in darkness. He remembered, with an un-
reasonable feeling of irritation, that his wife was very
economical with the gas. The house seemed even more
cheerless than the wet fog outside. The very street-
lamp seemed a gay illumination compared to the thin
yellow glow from the bedroom window. Even the hall
gas had not been lit. The kitchen was in darkness.
The cat, mewing pitifully in the area below, seemed to
represent the entire life of the household.
He looked once more at the severe frontage of the
house. There was the sound of a heavy step in the dis-
tance. Probably it was a policeman; no one else would


The Hand of the Dead
23
move so leisurely on such a miserable night. He did
not wish to be seen. Hitherto, the policeman had been
a friend watching over his interests as a householder.
But to-night Porteous looked at him in a new light.
The natural enemy of a thief. The symbol of the laws
of society which he had outraged.
He turned abruptly on his heel, and walked down the
street. Then he hailed a passing hansom and drove to
his club. There he had a hot bath, and dressed leisurely
for dinner. His present life necessitated his keeping a
suit of dress-clothes away from home. When he came
down to the smoking-room he ordered a sherry-and-
bitters, and lit a cigarette. He nodded to a few ac-
quaintances, and sat down. The flames roared cheerily,
and he lay back in the deep, morocco-covered chair
with a sigh of relief. The outlook seemed more rosy in
the warmth and light. For the last few years this club
had represented his home life. Here he had sought rest
from the nagging tongue of his wife. Here he had been
able to think out his ambitious plans for the future.
He smiled grimly as he thought of the splendid castle
he had built. It had proved but a house of cards, and
a woman's finger had sent it toppling to the ground.
He enjoyed his dinner thoroughly that night. The
club was famous for its cooking, and its wines were su-
perb. Afterward a friend came over to his table, and
the two men chatted over their coffee and cigars. The
friend suggested a music-hall and the bank manager fell
in readily with the idea. It was his last evening as Jack
Porteous. On the morrow he intended to have his


24
The Black Motor-Car
beard and moustache shaved off. From that hour he
would be Mr. Hubert Baring. He had decided to take
a room at the Cecil and have everything sent there. A
letter to the bank that night would explain his absence.
He would enclose the keys of the safe. His assistant
would see that everything went smoothly. No sus-
picion would arise in the minds of any of his subordi-
nates. He was known to be an upright man, and one
with whom it was advisable to keep on good terms.
The whole of the next day would be spent in complet-
ing his purchases and making arrangements for his
voyage to South America.
He had resolved to cash two thousand pounds' worth
of the notes openly at the Bank of England, and get rid
of as many of the others as he could at the various
shops.
The whole scheme was simple and apparently safe.
It would be hard to trace the man who had cashed the
notes, a week after he had sailed. Yes, to-morrow he
would be Hubert Baring.
It would be the first day of his new life. But to-night
he was Jack Porteous, and he made up his mind to
enjoy himself.
The two men decided to go to the Empire, and they
passed a very pleasant evening in the lounge. After-
ward they drove back to the club and stayed there
for over an hour. Then Jack Porteous took a cab
home.
The rain had stopped, but the fog had grown more
dense, and the drive was long and wearisome.


The Hand of the Dead
25
At last the cabman found the house. Porteous paid
him handsomely, and mounted the steps with unsteady
feet. He had had a considerable amount to drink that
evening.
The house was in absolute darkness. The fog was
so dense that he could only just see the nearest street-
lamp. It was no more than a dim yellow circle of light.
He heard the muffled beat of the horse's hoofs as his
cab drove slowly away. He leaned against the pillar,
and listened till the sound died away in the distance.
Then all was silence.
For quite five minutes he did not move. A sudden
and unconquerable fear had seized him. He felt that
he dare not enter the house. In his own drunken imag-
ination the dark walls seemed like a tomb. His soul
cried out for light. The fog was like a funeral pall. He
turned and fixed his eyes on the one yellow glimmer be-
low. It suggested a distant lighthouse—a hope and
guide for the storm-tossed mariner. He cowered against
the pillar, and clutched the stone with one hand.
Then suddenly from the distance came the sounds of
a piano playing “Home, Sweet Home” with infinite
variations. The music broke the spell that was upon
him. He drew himself upright, and listened. Then he
laughed bitterly and looked at the wall of stone that
towered above him. Home, sweet home!
He found his latch-key and lit a match, sheltering it
with his hand. Something brushed against his feet,
and, looking down he saw a blotched mass of fur, and
heard the faint mew of a cat. He kicked out with all


26
The Black Motor-Car
his force, and the wretched animal rolled screaming
down the steps.
He put the key into the lock and opened the door.
But once again the fear of some unknown evil seized
him, and he clung to the side of the doorway, his teeth
chattering with terror. He cursed himself for a fool,
and staggering into the hall, closed the door behind him.
A single spot of light glowed above his head. It was
the hall lamp turned down to a mere speck of flame.
He reached up a trembling hand, fumbled for a few
minutes with the tape, and finally succeeded in extin-
guishing the light.
He reeled back against the wall, and the perspiration
streamed from every pore in his body. It seemed to
him hours since he had seen the light. He listened at-
tentively and thought he heard something move far up on
one of the landings. The clock in the hall ticked loudly,
and the beating of his heart seemed to keep time with it.
He idly wondered what would happen if the clock sud-
denly stopped.
He opened his lips to call out. He had often crept
quietly upstairs after returning from his club, so that
his wife should not wake and upbraid him. He now
longed to hear her voice as he stood there in the dark-
ness. He moved forward, and purposely stumbled in
the hope of arousing her. The noise echoed through
the house, and he waited eagerly for a door to open on
the landing above. But nothing stirred.
Then he pulled himself together, and, striking a
match, looked carefully around, as though he expected


The Hand of the Dead
27
to see something. At the far end of the hall the move-
ment of a dim figure caught his eye. Then he laughed,
for he saw that the figure also held a light, and was
merely his own reflection in the looking-glass.
He realised the absurdity of his terror, and, reaching
up his hand, turned on the gas and put a match to it.
In a moment the hall was flooded with light, and fear,
to a large extent, vanished with the darkness. He lit
a candle which stood on the hall table and began to
ascend the stairs. Then he suddenly recollected the
letter to the bank, and, retracing his steps, crossed the
hall, went down a short passage, and opened the door of
his study. As he entered, a cold draught of air swept
across the room and blew out the candle. He heard a
rustling of some papers as they fluttered to the floor,
and he started nervously at the sound.
The hall lamp was hidden by the angle of the pas-
sage, and only a faint, reflected light stole through the
open door.
He could, however, just see the table in the centre of
the room, and, moving forward, he placed the candle-
stick upon it, while he felt in his pocket for another
match.
Then he remembered the draught, and making his
way back to the door, closed it. The room was now in
absolute darkness. Something rustled by the window.
He found his match-box and struck a light. Then he
gave a start of surprise. Some one was sitting at his
desk by the window. It was a woman, with her head
sunk forward in her arms.


28
The Black Motor-Car
He lit the candle and advanced toward the silent
figure. It was his wife. She was apparently asleep,
for she did not move. She was asleep, but her sleep
was the sleep of death.
For a moment he stood in hesitation. He thought of
the proverb, “Let sleeping dogs lie.” If he roused his
wife he knew what he might expect to hear from her
lips. Yet he could scarcely with decency leave her there
until she awoke of her own accord. He resolved to
write and post his letter to the bank. Then he could
wake her from her sleep, and go off to bed before she
thoroughly realised who had roused her.
He walked up tip-toe to the desk, and took the ink-
pot and a pen over to the table. As he did so his hand
touched one of the silver candlesticks. It was still hot.
The candle had burned down to the socket. He looked
round for some writing-paper. There was none to be
seen, but he knew that there was plenty in the second
drawer from the top on the left hand side of the desk.
He sank quietly on one knee, and opened the drawer.
His head was close to his wife's shoulder. He took out
a sheet of paper and an envelope. Then for the first
time he noticed the complete silence. He held his
breath and listened. There was not a single sound but
the beating of his own heart. A sudden fear seized him.
He tried to see his wife's face. It was buried in her
arms. He rose suddenly to his feet, and, taking the
candle from the table, thrust it close to her and scruti-
nised her narrowly. She was absolutely still. There
was no movement or sound of breathing.


CHAPTER III
THE BREAKING OF THE CHAIN
No one answered the bell in response to Porteous'
summons. It was now 2.30, and the servants were fast
asleep at the top of the house. With an effort the man
roused himself to action. Staggering to his feet, he left
the room, passed out of the hall door, and groped his
way through the fog to the nearest doctor.
The two men returned together. The doctor pro-
nounced life to be extinct. He had attended Mrs. Por-
teous before, and said he knew her heart was weak.
Death was due to syncope. Did her husband know of
anything that would have been likely to give a great
shock to her system?
Porteous replied mechanically that he was not aware
of anything of the sort. He said nothing of the life the
two had led for the last three years—the endless quar-
rels, the sullen endurance of each other's society, the
mutual neglect, the indifference, growing gradually
into positive hatred. All this would have had but little
effect on a hard and callous woman, such as he had im-
agined his wife to be. But in the last hour his eyes had
been opened to the terrible truth. She had loved him
to the last. She had, perhaps, through all these years,
battled in vain with her own unhappy temperament


30
The Black Motor-Car
and lived in the hope of regaining her husband's love.
His mind went swiftly over the past and he thought he
could now recall certain half-hearted advances on her
part, advances made with a genuine hope of reconcilia-
tion, but so subdued by the sense of wrongs she had suf-
fered that they were scarcely more than a faint intima-
tion of the spirit that prompted them. Such a life must
have been a hell to a woman who loved, and who yet
was unable to overcome her sense of resentment. Such
a life might well kill a woman with a weak heart. And
John Porteous did not look the doctor in the face, when
he told him that he knew of nothing that could have
caused her death.
The servants were roused, and Mrs. Porteous was
carried to her bedroom. The doctor left, and Porteous
stayed on alone in the study. He lit a dozen candles
and made the room a blaze of light. Then he fetched
sticks and paper from the kitchen and re-lit the fire. It
blazed up cheerfully with the aid of a little lamp oil, and ·
in less than an hour the room had assumed a more com-
fortable aspect. But to John Porteous the darkness and
cold still lay upon it. The thin veil of fog still hung
over everything, and in the chair by the desk still sat
the shadow of death.
He crouched close to the fire for warmth. He turned
his back upon the window. There was much to be
thought of that night, much even to be done. The
hand of God had struck, and had struck hard. The
blow had fallen in the very centre of his dishonourable
plans and scattered them in pieces to the four winds of


The Breaking of the Chain 31
Heaven. He had robbed the bank and could not repay
the money. His wife was dead, and he could not leave
England until she had been buried. Then there was the
boy. It would be impossible to desert a motherless and
helpless child. Yet his passage was taken on the
Oroquoya and Marie de la Mothe-he clenched his
hands in agony. But out of the chaos of his thoughts
came one single idea, clear cut and definite. He could
not marry Marie de la Mothe. He owed that at least to
the woman who was dead, the woman he had once
loved, the woman who had died through his hand.
Yet sentiment would have to be thrust aside if he
was to escape the clutches of the law. Sentiment would
not weigh with the bank, and the discovery was the matter
of a few days, perhaps of a few hours. He could replace
nearly £4,500, but the £6,800 had gone as surely as
though the money lay at the bottom of the sea. It was
the price he had paid for his infidelity, and he had not
even yet received that which he had bought. The whole
situation was dark and horrible. He could not turn
back. It was impossible to go forward. Yet to stand
still meant exposure, disgrace, imprisonment—perhaps
a long term of penal servitude, for the law does not deal
kindly with a man of high position who has abused his
trust.
All through the night he sat in his chair, and
tried to think of some way out of the difficulties that
beset him. But his thoughts were clouded by the dark
shadow that had crept into the room, and he found it
impossible to reason out any clear plan of action. He


32
The Black Motor-Car
could not forget what he had seen by the desk. Every
scheme for the future faded into darkness, where noth-
ing could be distinguished but the silent figure with
bowed head and folded arms, and through the silence
rang the music of a single refrain:
"Believe me if all those endearing young charms
That I gaze on so fondly to-day.”
The significance of the words was terrible. Every note
of the music was a pang that wrung nerve, and heart,
and brain.
Only once did he rise from his chair through all that
long and terrible night; then with a sudden impulse he
crossed over to the desk, and, unlocking one of the
drawers, took out a revolver. For some minutes he stood
irresolute. He did not fear death, but he feared the im-
putation of cowardice which death would bring. A fierce
battle raged in his mind. With a set purpose he kept
his eyes on the spot where his wife had died. He inten-
sified the horror of his position by every means in his
power, by every thought that would bring home to him
the necessity of death. Thrice he raised the weapon to
his forehead, and thrice his arm sunk slowly back to his
side. The photograph of his only son stood on his desk
and he could not keep his eyes off it. The baby face
laughed at him across the misty flood which swam be-
fore his eyes. Yet it was like the face of an accusing
angel, and he saw it age with misery and despair, and
he heard a voice crying out, “I am the son of a felon and
a suicide.” Finally, he thrust the revolver back into the


The Breaking of the Chain
33
drawer, and crossing over to the fireplace, flung himself
into a chair.
When dawn broke, his eyes were closed in a brief
sleep, and his white and haggard face looked horrible
in the grey morning light. One of the servants found
him there, and the noise of her footsteps roused him
from his slumber. Another day had broken, and
the light was more terrible than the darkness had
been.
He stumbled upstairs, shaved, had a cold bath, and
changed his clothes. The ordinary duties of civilised
life in some measure restored him to his senses. He ate
a poor breakfast, lit a cigar, and drove round to the
bank. He reflected in an agony of shame that a real
excuse for absence now lay ready to his hand.
From there he drove to the house of Marie de la
Mothe. He had only one clear idea for the future in
his mind, that he must break all the chains that bound
him to this woman. He owed that at least to his dead
wife. He was now free to marry whom he chose. The
bonds that he had found so irksome had been cut once
and for all. Yet the memory of them had become
stronger than the reality had ever been. He felt that it
was now impossible for him to marry this woman. He
had killed his wife by his neglect. This was the least
atonement he could make for his crime.
With this idea strong in his mind, he rang the bell of
46, Carey Terrace, and was shown into the drawing-
room. The maid lit the fire and went to find her mis-
tress. In a minute or two she brought back word that
3


34
The Black Motor-Car
Mrs. de la Mothe would see him in about half an hour,
if he cared to wait. He nodded assent. He did not care
to wait, but it was necessary for him to do so. He re-
quired all his strength for the battle that lay before him,
a battle not only with the woman who loved him, but
with his own passions and desires. Every moment of
delay was against him. His purpose was firm and un-
alterable. But as each minute passed he realised more
and more how hard he would have to fight for victory.
The very room was antagonistic to his purpose. The
little presents he had given this woman were dotted
about on tables and shelves. Each one of them recalled
some tender memory.
In an hour's time Marie de la Mothe appeared. She
looked radiantly beautiful, and had evidently spared no
time nor trouble over her toilet. She was, as usual, half
an hour late. As a rule he chaffed her about her unpunc-
tuality, but to-day he rose to his feet and took her hand
in silence. His face was white and haggard. She
glanced at him uneasily. She could see at once that his
manner toward her had changed.
“What has happened?” she said abruptly.
“The worst,” he replied, not daring to look her
straight in the face.
"The bank,” she cried, laying hold of his arm. "Im-
possible! You told me twenty-four hours at least-
and why are you here; why are you not- ?”.
“It is not the bank, Marie,” he said in a low voice.
She loosed his arm and looked keenly into his face.
“Not the bank!” she exclaimed, "what is it, then ?


The Breaking of the Chain 35
Why do you look away from me? What is it? Some-
thing you are afraid to tell me?"
“I have come to say good-bye, Marie,” he replied, “I
may not see you again.”
Her face grew pale. Her eyes flashed dangerously
and she laughed.
“Good-bye,” she repeated. “Yes, yes, of course,”
she added nervously. “How you frightened me. You
go to-morrow, but in a month's time—you silly, old
Jack, it is only a month after all,” and she clung lov-
ingly to his shoulder.
“It is for longer than that, Marie,” he said, slowly.
Then he swung around sharply and her hands dropped
from his shoulder.
“What has happened ?" she cried.
“My wife is dead,” he answered in a low voice.
! “Your wife? Dead?” she repeated. “You have
not— " And she shrank from him with a look of
horror.
“I have killed her,” he said in a hard voice; "you
may well shrink from me. In the eyes of the law I am
not a murderer. But I have killed her, as surely as if
I had shot or poisoned her.”
The woman's face brightened. “I do not under-
stand you, Jack,” she said. “How did she die? Why
do you say that you have killed her?”.
"She died a natural death,” he replied. “She died
of a broken heart.”
A sudden look of fury came into the woman's face,
but it passed as quickly as it came. She grew very


26
The Black Motor-Car
white and her lips were pressed closely together. She
understood. Both were silent for quite a minute.
Then Marie de la Mothe came up to him and laid one
hand upon his arm.
“ Jack,” she whispered, “you are free.”
“I am free,” he replied mechanically.
“Why do you say the worst has happened?” He was
silent. “How can it be the worst when you are free?"
she continued. “You did not love your wife, and she
you have often told me of your home life.” She looked
up into his face pleadingly. But he dared not meet her
eyes and he stared fixedly at the window. He had re-
solved that nothing should turn him from his purpose.
Yet he could not bring himself to say that which had to
be said.
“Why do you not answer?" she murmured. “Are
you not glad that you are free?”.
Last night's scene flashed across his brain—the figure
in the chair, the awful silence. Glad! Oh, God,
the mockery of it all. He clenched his hands and
walked away to the window. Then he came back
to Marie de la Mothe, who faced him with Aashing
eyes.
“Marie,” he said, “do you not understand that what
happened last night has made it impossible for us to
marry ?"
“I should have thought,” she replied quietly, “that
it has removed the only barrier to our marriage."
“Do you not understand ?” he continued, scarcely
heeding her interruption. “Well, I will try and make


The Breaking of the Chain 37
it clear to you,” and he told her briefly the story of the
night before.
She listened almost, as it seemed, impassively, for
one whose whole fate was bound up in the narrative.
When he had finished, she laughed.
"I understand,” she said, “you miserable coward!
You do not love me. You have been acting a lie. You
have—bah! why should I talk of it? You have made
the first excuse that came ready to your hand. It is a
poor one, Jack, a very poor one. And I- ” She sank
into a chair, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed
passionately.
· He came to her side and laid his hand upon her
shoulder. The struggle within him was terrible. Well
he knew that if he lost, his whole life would be too
ghastly to endure. He knew that the memory of the
night before would hold him to the day of his death.
"Marie,” he said tenderly, “I love you still. But-
but this has risen between us. I love you, and it is that
which will be my punishment. I have much to atone
for; and then there is my child.”
She did not look up, but her whole body was shaken
with sobs.
“My child is motherless,” he continued. “I have
wronged him enough already. I cannot leave England
until my wife is buried. And any moment I may be
arrested. He is the son of a thief.”
“Why do you not leave to-morrow, and take him
with you?" she broke in, raising a tear-stained face
from her hands.


38
The Black Motor-Car
"I cannot go until my wife is buried,” he said dog-
gedly.
“Why not?”
“I cannot go,” he repeated.
“You mean you will not?”.
“I cannot go,” he said sternly. "I have some de-
cency left in me.”
She came close up to him and grasped him by the arm.
“You must go,” she said slowly.
“I intend to stay.”
He had made up his mind on this point, and nothing
could move him now. If by going he could have saved
his child from shame he would have, perhaps, yielded.
But it was merely a question of his own punishment.
Whether he paid the penalty of his crime, or escaped
from justice, his child's position would be the same. He
would be the son of a common felon. For his own sake
it would be best to go. But he thrust all thought of self
aside.
“I intend to stay,” he repeated. “I have made my
plans. The funeral will take place in three days' time.
It is possible I shall not be found out for a week. Di-
rectly the funeral is over I shall leave England.”
“Alone?” the woman said, in a tender voice.
“With my child.” His voice trembled and the woman
was quick to notice his emotion. Without a word she
fung her arms about his neck, and burst into tears.
“Marie, Marie,” he whispered, “it is not because I
do not love you that I do this. I was ready to give up
everything for you, to leave my wife, to sacrifice my



"Go, I tell you, you cur," and she pointed to the door.
Page 39


-
-
--
-
-
-
-
-


The Breaking of the Chain
39
honour. But what has happened has risen between us
like a cloud. It is better for both of us to part. We can
never be happy with this shadow upon us. I am a mur-
derer, and I have killed a woman who loved me."
“Not as I love you,” she cried, seizing his left hand
in hers. “Do you remember when I gave you this
ring?” It was a single large opal in a plain gold set-
ting. He wore it on his third finger. He remembered
well when she had given it to him. He had sworn never
to take it from his hand, and to love her to the day of his
death.
“I remember," he said solemnly, “and I will wear it
always. But after to-day I will never see you again.”
She broke away from his clasp and faced him with
flushed cheeks and eyes that blazed through their hot
tears.
“You can go," she cried. He stood irresolute. “Go,
I tell you," she repeated. “You cur," and she pointed
to the door. He raised his eyes and read the truth in
her face. Her love had turned to the fierce hatred of a
woman who had been scorned.
He moved toward the door. When he reached it, he
stood for a moment irresolute. The woman held her
breath, and stared at him with parted lips. If he would
only come back to her, and kiss her, and say good-bye,
she might yet move him from his purpose. But Jack.
Porteous knew how weak he was in this woman's hands.
“Good-bye, Marie,” he said in a low voice.
He did not even turn his head. He was afraid, and
slunk out of the door like a beaten hound. Marie de la


40
The Black Motor-Car
Mothe moved a step forward and words of entreaty
were on her lips. But in a moment she stamped out
this last spark of love, and walking over to the fireplace,
rang the bell.
A minute later she heard the hall door close. She
went to the window and watched the tall figure walk
down the street. He did not look back.
Then a sudden burst of fury seized her. She picked
up a gold and tortoise-shell paper-knife and, breaking
it in half, threw the pieces in the fire. It had been a
gift from her lover.
Then she tore the pearl necklace from her throat and
stamped it under her foot. Then she moved round the
room slowly and deliberately, and, seizing everything
he had ever given her, she dashed them one after the
other into the fireplace, and beat them into shapeless
and broken débris with a poker.
Then she flung herself on the sofa, and lay there with
a white face and tearless eyes, staring at the fire until
the whole room seemed bathed with blood-red flames.
Then suddenly she rose to her feet and laughed. An
idea had come to her.
“He shall suffer for this,” she cried aloud. “My
God! how he shall suffer!”


CHAPTER IV
A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE
Fortune favored Jack Porteous during the next two
days, and all his arrangements for leaving the country
were carried out satisfactorily.
Three hours after he had left Marie de la Mothe
he discovered that it was practically certain his defalca-
tions would not be discovered for at least a fortnight,
and the terror of immediate detection was removed.
He was also lucky in being able to transfer his berth on
the Oroquoya to a steamer sailing the next week.
But the question of his child presented many diffi-
culties. He had to decide whether to take the boy with
him or leave him behind in the care of some relatives.
It was a hard struggle for the wretched man. He was
devoted to his son, and he realised that if they parted
at all the parting would have to be forever. He could
not claim the child in after years and brand him with
his father's shame.
For a whole night he fought out a silent battle with
himself. It was the night before his wife's funeral. Her
body lay in the next room. The lid of the coffin had
been screwed down and he knew that he could never
see her face again. But that face still lived in the
features of her child.
41


42
The Black Motor-Car
All night he lay awake and stared into the darkness.
But when the cold grey light of morning came he had
made up his mind. His atonement had to be final and
complete. His own feelings had to be sacrificed. The
child must never see its father again, must never even
know its father's name.
The day of the funeral was cold and bleak. A bitter
wind blew from the north and drove a few scattered
flakes of snow across the churchyard. John Porteous
listened to the burial service with a face of stone. Not
a muscle moved nor an eyelid quivered. To an ordi-
nary spectator it would have seemed that he was merely
a respectful mourner, perhaps some distant relative of
the deceased, who had been left some money, and who
had attended the funeral as a formal mark of respect.
The little boy stood by his side with a frightened look
in his large grey eyes. He barely understood what had
happened, but his childish mind was terrified at the
solemnity and gloom of the proceedings.
It was only when the coffin had been lowered into the
grave, and Porteous had taken a last look at it before
the earth had covered it up, that he showed any signs of
emotion, and lifting his child up in his arms, he kissed
him. No one guessed that he meant that kiss for his
dead wife, and that it sealed the resolution of atone-
ment.
The only sister of Mrs. Porteous was present at the
funeral. Her husband, who held a small living in
Essex, had conducted the burial service. Both were
staying the night in London. On the way back from


44
The Black Motor-Car
anything of his God, but that night he besought for-
giveness for his sins, and prayed that the punishment
might not fall on the head of his innocent child.
The next morning the Rev. George Behag and his wife
arranged to leave Liverpool Street by the 11:40. John
Porteous did not go to the bank that morning. He
wanted to have the last few hours with the child, whom,
in all probability, he would never see again.
After breakfast he took the little lad into his study.
The child was excited at the idea of leaving London,
and his father was loth to damp his jubilant spirits.
However, Porteous found it impossible to smile in that
room. He had purposely chosen it as the place to say
good-bye. There, at any rate, his purpose would not be
likely to falter. The dark shadow that lay upon his
face did not escape the keen observation of the large,
childish eyes.
After a while the two talked and played together as
if nothing out of the common were about to happen.
But by degrees the laughing smile died from the child's
face. He threw down his jumping dog, the wonderful
black animal that reared impulsively on its hind legs at
the mere pressure of the thumb on an India-rubber ball,
and came up to his father's side.
"Where's mummy?" he said plaintively.
"She's gone away, Dickie," the wretched man re-
plied.
“When will she come back, papa ?"
“She is not coming back, Dickie.”
The child clapped his hands. “Mummy's gone to


A Woman's Vengeance
45
the country," he cried joyfully. “I will see her to-day?"
The man did not answer.
“To-day, perhaps,” the child repeated, a little doubt-
fully.
“Not to-day, Dickie, but some day. Mamma has
gone on a long journey. I told you so before,
Dickie.”
“Yes, yes, papa, but Uncle George lives an awful
way off, miles and miles and miles. Perhaps- "
“Not to-day, Dickie. Some day you will see her, if
you are good.”
"But, papa- "
The man seized the child and kissed him passionately,
stifling the question on his lips. Then he took him on
his knee and talked to him about the strange and beau-
tiful things he would see in the country—the cows, the
horses, the pigs.
“Pigs,” the child asked excitedly. “Real pigs?”.
“Yes, Dickie, real pigs that grunt, so," and he imi-
tated the animal to the best of his ability.
The child's mind was wholly occupied in listening to
the delightful sound. The pig represented to him the
highest form of animal existence. But even the pig
palled at last.
He called for other animals, and Porteous gave each
of them in turn, running through the whole gamut of
the farm-yard.
He was imitating the quack of a duck, when there was
a knock at the door, and a servant entered.'
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir.”


46
The Black Motor-Car
“I cannot see any one now, Mary," he replied. “Ask
them to look in again. Who are they?”
“They gave no name, sir, but they said their business
was important."
"Please ask them who they are and what they want.
I cannot see any one unless it is on a very urgent matter."
The servant left the room.
Porteous walked over to the window and stared idly
into the street. Then he suddenly started, and his face
grew very white. Two policemen were standing at the
corner half a dozen yards to the right of him. There
was nothing unusual in that. But a hundred yards
further down the street to the left there was another
policeman, and his eyes were fixed on the window.
John Porteous moved quickly away and glanced at his
child. Then he laughed. “Conscience makes cow-
ards of us all.” It was only a mere coincidence. It is
not unusual to see policemen in a London street. It is
not extraordinary for one of them to be looking at a
window.
“Quack, quack," said the child in a piping voice, and
waited anxiously for his father to resume the pleasing
sound.
The maid re-entered the room.
“The gentlemen say they must see you, sir,” she said;
“they have come on business from the bank.”
“Their names ?” he asked.
Before the servant could reply, two men pushed past
her into the room. They were both strangers. One
of them kept his hands in his pockets.
.


A Woman's Vengeance 47
"We should like a word with you, Mr. Porteous,"
said one of them, and then looked at the servant.
“You may go, Mary,” he replied, "and take Master
Dick with you."
“No, no, papa,” yelled the child. He was picked up
kicking and screaming, and carried forcibly from the
room. Porteous went to his desk, and half opened one
drawer, as though he intended to look for something.
Then he turned round to the two men.
“Well, gentlemen ?” he said. One of them stepped
forward and produced a paper.
"John Porteous,” he said, “I arrest you in the name
of the Queen, on a charge of embezzlement and forgery.
Do you wish the warrant read to you?”
“You need not trouble,” Porteous replied. “I have
no doubt that it is in order, and that you have the au-
thority to act on it. Unless, indeed, you are playing a
practical joke on me. Doubtless there has been some
mistake.”
“We have a cab outside the door," the other man
said, jingling something in his pocket, “will you come
quietly, or must- "
Porteous stealthily moved his hand toward the half-
open drawer, but before he could slip his fingers into it
he found himself covered by a revolver.
“Close that drawer," the man said sharply, “the
game is up. Edwards, put on the handcuffs.”
Porteous closed the drawer and buried his face in his
hands. Resistance was useless. He knew now why
there were three policemen in the street below him.


48
The Black Motor-Car
Edwards advanced toward him, the handcuffs clinking
as he walked. Porteous raised his head.
“I will come quietly," he said. “My wife was bur-
ied yesterday. My little boy is going away with some
relatives to-day. I expect them here every minute.
Let there be no scene. See here!” He locked the
drawer and threw the key in the fireplace.
“Very well, sir," the man replied. He had a wife
and child of his own. He realised the pathos of the
scene, the arrest of the man the day after his wife's
funeral.
“May I write a line to my brother-in-law ?”
“Certainly, but I must read it."
“You can read it.”
“Very well, sir, you can write."
John Porteous took a sheet of paper and hurriedly
wrote a few lines to the Rev. George Behag.
“DEAR GEORGE:
“I am called away on urgent business. Please take
Dickie away with you. Will write later.
“JACK PORTEOUS.”
The sergeant read it and smiled. "Urgent business,"
he repeated. “Ha! ha! very good.”
“My child,” said Porteous, in a low voice, “may I
see him?"
“Certainly. Edwards, ring the bell.”
A minute or two later the servant entered. Porteous
told her to bring the child down again. When the boy
came, his father took him on his knee and kissed him.


A Woman's Vengeance 49
The men turned their backs and examined the pictures
on the walls.
"Dickie,” said the wretched man, "you will have to
go in a few minutes. You will be a good boy with your
uncle?”
“Yes, papa,” the child answered, “and when will you
come?”
“Later on, Dickie, later on."
“In a few days?”
“Perhaps, Dickie. Good-bye, my boy.”
“Good-bye, papa.” Porteous clasped the little child
in his arms, kissed him passionately, and set him down
on the floor.
“Now, run along, laddie,” he said. The boy trotted
across the floor, then turned as he reached the door.
“What do the fowls say, papa ? I'se forgotten.”
“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck," Porteous replied, “and
cock-a-doodle-doo. Good-bye, Dickie."
The boy laughed and clapped his hands. Then he
vanished.
“Are you ready, sir?” said Sergeant Scott.
“I am ready.”
Three weeks later John Porteous was sentenced to
fourteen years' penal servitude. The judge found no
extenuating circumstances. A man of high position
had abused the confidence placed in him. The prisoner
could not even plead poverty as an excuse.
The money had not been taken to save a home from
ruin, nor to replace losses incurred in a moment of


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The Black Motor-Car
reckless speculation. It had been taken deliberately
and consistently for some purpose which the prisoner
declined to disclose.
The judge had no doubt but that the prisoner had
been keeping up a second establishment. He laid par-
ticular stress on the fact that the anonymous letter
which had put the bank on the scent of the fraud was in
a woman's handwriting.
All attempts to discover the writer had failed. This
was clearly a case where a man's own sin had found
him out, and where the woman, for some unknown
motive, had perpetrated a swift and terrible revenge.
Through all the summing up, John Porteous stood
white and silent, with his hands on the rail of the dock.
He alone knew who had written the letter, which had
brought all his plans crashing down about his head.
He did not wish the world to know. From false mo-
tives of honour he hugged the secret to his breast. He
did not then realise how in the long years to come that
secret would eat away the best part of his soul and heart
and brain, and leave an empty house for all the devils
that come up to earth from hell.


CHAPTER V
HEATHERSTONE HALL
Heatherstone Hall, the seat of the Right Honourable
Earl of Heatherstone, G.C.B., G.C.S.I., Privy Council-
lor and one time Minister at the Court of Rome, is, as
most tourists know, one of the show-places of Essex.
It stands on the summit of a small hill, and its great
west front, six hundred feet in length, looks over a finely
timbered park and across several miles of undulating
and wooded country. Behind it the ground slopes
gently down to a high stone wall. Beyond that lies the
main road running northward into Suffolk, and beyond
that a creek, and beyond that again a waste of marsh-
land stretching to the sea.
Heatherstone Hall itself was built by the first Lord
Heatherstone in 1730, and replaced a smaller but more
picturesque building of red brick, which had served as
a home for the family since the days of Queen Elizabeth.
It was of white stone and shone as a landmark for miles
around, and even far out at sea the sailors on the small
vessels that passed up and down the coast could see the
light of the rising sun on its long line of windows.
Inside, everything was on the grand scale. The first
Earl had spent most of his life in a royal palace, where


52
The Black Motor-Car
he had discovered many ways of making money, and
his views of a house, suitable for a private gentleman,
had been modelled on the ideas of kings. The recep-
tion-rooms were enormous, and so numerous that half
of them were only used once or twice a year.
The visitor who was allowed to wander through them
on payment of one shilling when the family was away,
grew heartily sick of looking at pictures and objects of
art. It was almost as bad as a day at the Louvre. One
room, a huge chamber of gold and marble, was styled
“the Throne room.” George I. once held a court in this
regal apartment.
But the name was a standing jest with the Heather-
stones' neighbours, who lost no opportunity of poking
fun at the family's pretensions to almost royal state.
Everything was in keeping with the splendour of the
house. The steward would have made an excellent
lord high chamberlain. There was a master of the
horse, and a mistress of the robes—a young acting
manager, invited to bring his whole company down to
the private theatre, had irreverently styled her "the
wardrobe mistress.”
Such was the home of the Heatherstones. A family of
great wealth, but of pride out of all proportion to their
greatness. For if the truth be told, the family intellect
never again came up to the high standard set by the
first Earl.
His successors were men of position and importance.
Many of them held high offices of state. There were
no fools or spendthrifts in the family. They were all


Heatherstone Hall
53
English gentlemen of culture and sound common-sense,
but they never rose to the height of genius.
They were solid and hard-headed, but commonplace.
Such men are the ballast of the empire, but it is left to
men of a different breed to steer it through the stormy
seas of foreign politics.
One glorious summer's day, twenty years after the
events narrated in the last chapter, Lord Heather-
stone was giving one of his three annual garden-
parties.
Lady Heatherstone was a confirmed invalid, and had
not left her room for two years, and the duties of hostess
devolved on Lady Agnes Cliffe, Lord Heatherstone's
only daughter, by a former wife.
The party was, as Lord Harry Quy dryly observed to
Miss Cynthia Fox-Stanton, only a semi-state function,
and Lord Harry had come in a flannel suit and panama
hat.
Yet it was no ordinary entertainment. It was, in
fact, semipolitical in character. A bye-election of un-
usual importance was agitating the whole of the eastern
part of the county.
Lord Heatherstone represented Toryism in its most
solid and uncompromising aspect. It is true that his
great ancestor had been a Whig, but, as he explained to
his friends, a Whig in the time of George I. was a power
in the land, and the cause was worthy of the attention
of a gentleman.
Only two classes of people had been asked to the


54
The Black Motor-Car
party, those whose views were unmistakably of the right
sort, and those who had no views at all.
The latter were, of course, open to reasonable argu-
ment. Lord Harry Quy, the young man who refused
to take the garden-party seriously, had been chosen by
Lord Heatherstone to represent the Conservative hopes
of the district. He was a younger son of the Marquis
of Gorehaven, whose estates joined the north side of the
Heatherstone property, and was a general favourite in
the county.
A genial, careless young sportsman was Lord Harry
Quy, and his chief recommendation to parliamentary
honours lay in the fact that he was not likely to do any-
thing startling, and that he was a scratch golfer at St.
Andrew's.
His career at Oxford had been a brilliant one. He
had been president of the Union and president of the
0. U. D. S. He had rowed No. 4 in the eight, and had
got his blue at Rugger, as a smart and powerful forward.
Incidentally he had taken a fourth in law. It was one
of the traditions of his family that they should study the
laws of their country.
His father had taken a second, but then Lord Gore-
haven had been no athlete, and, apart from the exigen-
cies of the hunting season, he had been able to devote
his time to solid reading.
There were over eight hundred people at the garden-
party, and before 4:30 it was felt that speeches were in
the atmosphere. The tennis and croquet languished.
Groups of budding politicians conversed earnestly in


Heatherstone Hall
55
shady corners. Lord Heatherstone had been seen to
glance at some notes in his pocket, and one of his two
secretaries was surreptitiously consulting a large book
under the shade of a rhododendron.,
Lord Harry Quy was nervous and irritable, and
looked furtively around as though studying a safe line
of retreat. Finally, he retired to the extreme edge
of the lawn and pretended to look for lost tennis-
balls.
While he was engaged in this engrossing occupation
a shadow fell on the flower-bed he had chosen for the
scene of his operations, and he turned sharply round on
his knees.
"Hallo, Lady Agnes,” he cried cheerfully, “have you
come to lend a hand ?"
Lady Agnes laughed and looked at her frock.
“I am not dressed for gardening,” she said, “and why
'Lady Agnes' this afternoon, sir?”.
"I am such a stranger,” he replied. "I do not think
I have seen you more than once since you received me
-receive' is, I think, the right phrase for a court func-
tion, is it not?”
“Don't be idiotic, Harry.”
“How many have kissed your hand since then ?” he
said, rising to his feet and brushing some of the earth
from his trousers. “I suppose you kiss the duchesses
on the cheek. I believe that is court etiquette?”
“That is so,” she replied gaily; “don't you wish you
were a duchess ?”
Lord Harry's face grew grave, and he turned slightly


56
The Black Motor-Car
away from her. Then he looked her in the face and
laughed.
“You are a child, Agnes,” he said.
“Thank you, and what are you—an M.P.? Ha! ha!
but you won't get in. And what are you, then ?”
"A fool, perhaps, Agnes; I know you think me one."
The girl laughed and patted him on the back.
She was only seventeen, and very beautiful. She and
Lord Harry Quy had been companions from childhood.
She regarded him as one of her best friends.
But on his side the friendship had ripened into love.
The girl as yet guessed nothing of the truth, for the
young man had carefully concealed it from her.
Her manner toward him was that of an old playmate.
As she touched him he imperceptibly shrank from her.
"Poor old Harry," she said mockingly, “don't mind
me. Father's going to make a speech about you in a
few minutes. You had better come and listen. It will
be an antidote to my valuable opinions. You will learn
that you are one of the pillars of the empire, the friend
and leader of the people, a great legislator-you did get
honours in law, didn't you?”
Lord Harry winced. “That's enough, Agnes,” he
said, with a forced smile. “I daresay I can hold my
own, if it comes to a fight,” and he unconsciously
squared his broad shoulders and tightened the muscles
of his hands.
"I am afraid you won't be able to fight the other can-
didate in the prize-ring,” she said, with a provoking
smile.


Heatherstone Hall
57
“Stacey Clarke would not be worth fighting any-
where,” he replied, “and if it were not for Arthur Holme
he would not get a hundred votes. He is a fine fellow,
that Holme, a big strong chap, hard as nails, and a good
worker. I wish we could have got him to work on our
side. Do you know him ?”
"No," she said, “and no one seems to know
much about him; but all the fisher folk swear by
him, and you know they form a large part of your
electorate."
“Yes, worse luck! There is no feudal hold on these
fisher chaps. They don't care a hang for landowners.
In most cases they own their own cottages, and they
think more of a mate with a first-class certificate than
an earl who does not know a main halliard from a jib
sheet.”
“Mr. Holme has the pull of you there, Harry. You
ought to buy a yacht.”
"I hate the sea,” he replied. “I should certainly
make a fool of myself. This fellow plays the game
well. He has bought a fifteen-ton oyster smack and
lives in it. No fancy yachts for him with varnished
decks and a crew to do the work. He sails the boat
himself, with a fisher chap that he treats as a pal. He
dodges about these creeks all day long, lives and dresses
like a common fisherman. Does his electioneering for
Clarke on the water and gets right to the heart of all
the men. He is a clever fellow. I daresay it's all hum-
bug, but he makes them think he is a son of the sea,
and that he does not care a rap for landlubbers. But


58
The Black Motor-Car
I know something about Stacey Clarke that I intend to
let out before the election.”
“Not a scandal, I trust,” Lady Agnes replied, with a
laugh. “Really, you candidates are almost as bad as
old women round a tea-table. You revel in raking up
your opponent's past, and construct conclusive evidence
of a fearful crime out of shreds of gossip.”
“No, it is not exactly scandal, but it will knock off
about ten per cent. of his votes."
“Tell me, if I ought to listen to it."
“Well, he's got a motor-car.”
Lady Agnes burst out laughing.
“What a terrible thing,” she said. “I hope you will
reveal his secret as soon as possible.”
"I can tell you it is a serious matter, Agnes,” the
young man replied.
“You know the Liberals are dead against motor-cars.
They are one of the 'vices of the rich. This is not a
toy thing with bicycle wheels and a rattle that sounds
as if it were going to drop to pieces, but a twenty-four
horse-power Mercedes, an 'infernal machine'; "an in-
fringement of the liberty of the subject.' An old rattle-
box that crawls along at eight miles an hour and stops
at every hill might be tolerated. But this swift, smooth-
ly running monster is an insult to all peace-loving citi-
zens. It is a point in my favour.”
"I thought you intended to buy a motor-car for your-
self ?” queried Lady Agnes.
"I do,” he replied, “but not till after the election. I
am going to buy a car compared to which Stacey Clarke's


Heatherstone Hall
59
Mercedes will be a mere toy. But at present I mean to
let out about the Liberal candidate's motor. He has
been trying to keep it rather quiet. It has not been out
for weeks. It would not be mean to do this, eh, Agnes ?”
“Certainly not,” she replied, with a laugh, “but you
must remember that sailors are not likely to be troubled
much by the motor nuisance.”
“Hum! Well, I will see about it. What on earth's
that?” A loud burst of cheering suddenly burst upon
their ears. A crowd was gathering round Lord Heather-
stone. One of his secretaries flew across the lawn to
where the two young people were standing.
“We must go, Agnes,” Lord Harry said calmly.
“Let me see you after all this business is over. I have
something rather important to discuss with you."
"More important than politics ?”
“Yes,” he replied. "In about an hour's time. Your
father won't speak for more than that, and I can prom-
ise you that five minutes will exhaust all I have to say.
I will be down by the old cottage near the East wall.
You know it? We used to pretend it was a castle on
the border, and that all the land beyond the wall was
inhabited by the enemy.”
“Of course I know it, Harry,” she replied, “but why
walk all that way? It is half a mile, and besides, I am
the hostess and cannot be rude.”
“Oh, most of the people will go before your father's
finished. And you can make some excuse to the rest.
I want to get away from them all, and talk with you.
I haven't had a good chat all day. If we stay here some


60
The Black Motor-Car
idiot is bound to come up and ask for my views on
Russia in the Far East.”
“Well, I will be there if I can,” said the girl, with a
laugh. “We must go now. I can see that father has
started his speech. Mrs. Maxwell-Frinton is sidling off
toward the house under the cover of the audience."
They strolled up to the crowds of people that had
gathered round the great Lord Heatherstone, and sep-
arated.


CHAPTER VI
MR. ARTHUR HOLME
Shortly after six o'clock most of the guests had de-
parted, and Lady Agnes, released from part of her
social duties, cut the rest and slipped away unobserved
to the bottom of the garden.
As she reached the gate, which opened out through
a thick yew hedge into the park beyond, there was a
rustling in the bushes by the edge of the path, and her
favourite Irish terrier came sheepishly to her side.
His nose was covered with mould, and there was little
doubt he had been engaged in unlawful pursuits.
"O Ginger,” she said, in a tone of reproach. The
dog looked up at her with pathetic brown eyes and
wagged his tail slowly and doubtfully. She stooped
down and patted his rough brown coat.
"Come along, you old villain,” she said, holding the
gate open for him to pass through, and then the two
went together down the sloping grasslands of the park,
under the great spreading oaks and chestnuts, and
through a narrow copse which fringed this side of the
Heatherstone estate for two miles.
They emerged into a small open space thickly over-
grown with bracken. Beyond it lay the stone wall,
which bordered on the road. Everywhere else the
6,


Mr. Arthur Holme
Here and there a small cottage showed up from the
waste around it, the home of some lonely fisherman or
of one of the watchmen of the oyster-fisheries. These
habitations seemed only to accentuate the loneliness of
the desolate marshes.
It was a familiar scene to Lady Agnes Cliffe, but it
was one that had never lost its fascination for her. To
some people the waste places of the earth, the marshes,
the deserts, the lonely fields of ice and snow, are only
barren and uninteresting.
But the imaginative mind finds more room for its
luxuriant fancy in such spots than in the most beautiful
landscapes. To Lady Agnes, as she looked out from
the border of her father's splendid park, these dreary
marshes represented the unknown, the unexplored, the
edge of the world.
As children she and Lord Harry had sat secure in
their broken stronghold of grey stones and looked out
toward the east, watching for the enemy that never
came, though they firmly believed that he lay hidden
somewhere beyond the muddy creek.
Often of an afternoon they would spy his movements
in the white sail of a distant boat, in the stir of some
rushes, in the rustling of a bush, in the sudden flight of
a heron or some wild duck. But they never saw him,
though they knew well where he lived. To the north-
east, and distant some eight miles as the crow flew, a
small stony hillock rose up against the sky. On the
side of it stood a large red brick house.
It was almost invisible from their fortress, but both


64
The Black Motor-Car
of them had explored the long road which ran to it be-
tween two creeks. The house had always, as far as
they could remember, been unoccupied. It was a
gaunt pile of red brick with no glass in the shuttered
windows. Just the hiding-place for a secret foe.
Neither of the children had ever had any doubt that
this was the actual home of their unseen enemy.
Lady Agnes looked at it on this particular afternoon,
and smiled at the remembrance of her childish fancies.
Yet she was still child enough to regard the place with
some suspicion. It was odd that it had not been let
for so many years.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the dog, who hur-
riedly scrambled from her side and brushed his way
through the bracken, barking cheerfully. In a few
moments Lord Harry appeared. She arose and waved
her hand to him. He strode through the bracken and
smiled. But for all that there was an unwonted look
of anxiety on his brown face.
"I am sorry, Agnes, to keep you waiting,” he said,
as he climbed up the heap of stones to her side, “but
really, these politicians are most insistent people. My
head is going round.” He sat down by her side and
looked so earnestly at her that she turned her eyes away
to the north.
"I've been all right, Harry,” she said. “I have been
looking at the red castle, the home of our ancient foe.”
The young man laughed.
“It's been let," he said. “No more room for im-
agination in that quarter. I rode out there the other


Mr. Arthur Holme
65
e
'
day. There was glass in the windows, and the garden
is being cleared up with a scythe.”
“Who's taken it?” she asked.
"I don't know,” he replied. "A stranger to these
parts, I should say. It is eight miles from a shop, you
know.”
"Thus end the dreams of our childhood,” the girl
said, with a smile. “I have no doubt he is a worthy
man and will come to our garden-parties. Do you rec-
ollect, Harry, how we pictured him, a tall red-bearded
scoundrel, with yellow teeth and rusty armour? If I
remember right, he always crept, or slunk, or crawled.”
“Yes, I remember,” he replied gravely, “but I had
spotless armour inlaid with gold, and I stood straight
up to him and slew him before your eyes. I think your
favourite dress was crimson velvet, trimmed with er-
mine?”
“It was, Harry, it was. Very hot in summer, and
most unfashionable in colour. How funny these dreams
of one's childhood are, Harry; how unpractical and
how seldom realised.”
“That's true, Agnes,” he replied slowly, “yet there's
one dream of my childhood that was very practical, and
which could yet be realised. You were, if I remember
right, always a princess, and generally in distress.”
"Well, Harry?”
"Well,” he said, in a low voice, "you are still a prin-
cess to me."
“But not in distress, Harry," she faltered, looking
away from him, for she dared not look into his face.


66
The Black Motor-Car
“No, not exactly in distress,” he said, “but not too
happy. A princess with a stepmother—a sort of Cin-
derella-neglected— ”.
“With no ugly sister,” she broke in.
“True," he replied, “but with a brother who wants
the nonsense kicked out of him. It is a pity your
father did not send Overcliffe to a public school.”
"Poor Overcliffe.”
“Well,” the young man continued in a hesitating
voice, “I am not exactly a prince, but-but--well,
Agnes, you know what I am."
“A politician, I believe," she said archly, but still she
did not venture to look him in the face. Her woman's
instinct told her what was coming next.
“Damn politics,” the young man cried fiercely. “I
beg your pardon, Agnes, but you seem to think
politics is everything. It appears to be a family
failing."
Lady Agnes had no reply to make to this emphatic
statement, and for a few moments both were silent.
The girl was rapidly casting about for some means
whereby she could lead her companion out of the diffi-
cult path he had chosen, and the young man was un-
certain how best to proceed. The thread of the con-
versation was becoming slightly tangled.
“Agnes,” he suddenly blurted out. Then he stopped,
and his brown hand closed over her slender fingers.
The colour flushed to her cheek.
“Agnes,” he repeated softly and tenderly. But be-
fore he could say another word, the thunder of wheels


Mr. Arthur Holme
67
and hoofs, the rattling of chains, and the hoarse cries
of a man burst upon their ears.
Lady Agnes started to her feet, glad of the oppor-
tunity to move from a somewhat embarrassing position,
and ran down to the wall. Lord Harry followed her,
cursing at the interruption. The noise grew louder
and louder.
Looking along the road to the south, they saw three
great horses with heads down, tearing madly along in
a cloud of dust, and behind them an enormous dray,
swaying from side to side, and a man standing up and
leaning back on the reins with all his strength.
"A runaway!" cried Lord Harry. “Keep back from
the wall, Agnes, for heaven's sake," and he pulled her
away with some violence. He knew well enough that
a swerve of the horses to the left would hurl all the con-
tents of the dray on the top of them.
Another man had heard the clatter and cries along
the road. He climbed out of the hatchway of one of
the oyster-smacks and stood upon the deck.
A tall, broad-shouldered man, with a bronzed,
weather-beaten face, and a golden beard and moustache.
He was dressed in a blue jersey, blue serge trousers,
and a pair of heavy fisherman's boots.
He came to the edge of the smack and glanced keenly
at the runaway horses and then at the two figures be-
hind the park wall. When the dray got within fifty
yards of the onlookers, Lord Harry sprang lightly over
the wall and crossed the road. He was an athlete, and,
moreover, absolutely devoid of fear.


68
The Black Motor-Car
He thought it possible that he might catch the reins
of the leader, and pull the whole concern to a standstill.
Lady Agnes cried out to him to come back, and the
man on the smack yelled something out to him that he
did not hear.
The horses came at him like an avalanche. He
sprang at the reins of the leader and was swung off his
feet.
If the horses had kept straight on he must inevitably
have been trampled under their hoofs, but as luck
would have it they caught sight of the girl's white dress
and swerved sharply toward the creek, as though they
had been struck broadside by a tornado.
Lord Harry was swung round like a stone in a sling,
jerked off his hold and shot out half a dozen yards into
the water. The driver went flying after him.
The contents of the van scattered and broke in every
direction. The horses plunged a few yards through
the mud, slipped, struggled to their feet, slipped again,
rolled over and kicked furiously, churning the mud into
a filthy black slime. The driver was pitched onto the
leader's back, whence he ricochetted into a soft bed of
mud two feet in depth.
He fell over and almost disappeared, but he rose un-
hurt, a filthy spectacle, spitting mud from his mouth
and dripping with it from head to foot.
Lord Harry Quy was not so fortunate. The man on
the smack kicked off the big boots and looked keenly
at the foam-flecked water where he had disappeared.
It was several seconds before he appeared on the surface,


Mr. Arthur Holme
69
and then he was some yards farther down the stream.
He sank almost as suddenly as he had risen.
The man on the smack looked no longer, but dived
into the swift tide and swam rapidly to the spot where
the body had vanished. He had seen at a glance that
the young man was either stunned or dead.
Once more the head appeared and vanished, this
time but a few feet from the rescuer. The latter dashed
through the water, and, diving down, caught the arm
of the drowning man and brought him to the surface.
The body was limp and still, and it was easy work to
swim with it to the shore.
He did not touch bottom until he got into three feet
of water, for to swim was mere child's play compared
to walking through the mud. And then he lifted Lord
Harry Quy onto his shoulder and carried him to the
grass by the side of the road. Lady Agnes came to him
with a white face.
"Is he is he " she faltered.
“He's all right,” replied the man roughly; “run up
to the house, that's a good girl, and get help; blankets,
hot water, something to carry him up on. I will rub
him down, and I'll bet he's smiling when you come
back, but run like the devil, in case we don't happen to
get him round.” The girl turned without another
word, and, clambering over the wall, disappeared from
sight.
"Hi, you there,” yelled the man to the driver, who
had cut the traces and got his three horses to their feet,
"just leave your damned horses, and lend a hand here.


70
The Black Motor-Car
They will walk out of the mud by themselves now, I
guess.”
The man came through the slime, a pitiable spec-
tacle, black and odorous from head to foot, oozing mud
from every part of his clothing.
The sailor gave him a few rapid instructions, and
then, hurrying to one of the dingheys, pushed it off and
sculled over to the smack. In less than two minutes
he was on his way back, clothed in a dry jersey and
trousers and with a bottle of brandy and a rough blanket
in the bottom of the boat.
Then both men set to work with a will, and in less
than ten minutes Lord Harry sighed and opened his eyes.
A quarter of an hour before the arrival of the relief
party from the hall he was clothed in a borrowed serge
suit and smoking a cigarette, and was chatting cheerfully
to the man who had pulled him out of the water.
The sailor went over to the dray and gave a hand to
the driver, who was trying to save some of his cases
from the encroaching tide. The two men toiled hard at
their task and succeeded in depositing most of the boxes
on the road.
Two of them, however, defied their united efforts,
and they lay half-buried in the black mud, with the tide
eddying round them. One of the cases was broken,
and it appeared to be full of metal castings of small
cogs, bars of steel, bolts, screws and bits of the frame-
work of some engine.
The three horses, black with mud and trembling
from head to foot, watched the operations with apparent


Mr. Arthur Holme
71
unconcern, and grazed unfeelingly by the edge of the
road.
Lord Harry Quy strolled down and looked at the
address on the labels.
They were all consigned to the same person:
Mr. William Jordison,
The Red House,
Gorehaven,
Essex.
“Hum!” said Lord Harry to himself, “that's curi-
ous.”
At last a number of people came crashing through
the copse and scrambled over the edge of the wall.
Lady Agnes rushed up to Lord Harry and over-
whelmed him with a torrent of questions: How did he
feel? Was he cold? Was he feverish? Did his head
ache? Was he wet? and so on. A crowd of servants
from the hall, armed with blankets, hot-water bottles,
brandy, whisky, stretchers, etc., stood sheepishly by,
and looked in vain for some one who was in need of .
them.
It was with difficulty they could be restrained from
applying a course of treatment to the driver of the dray.
He acquiesced in the brandy, but drew the line at hot-
water bottles.
“Agnes,” said Lord Harry, when she had exhausted
her torrent of questions, “let me introduce you to this
gentleman, who has saved my life. We shall probably
see much of him during the next few weeks. Mr.
Arthur Holme-Lady Agnes Cliffe."


The Red House
73
Heatherstone Hall—a wide causeway that had been
built in the time of the Romans, and had been main-
tained ever since as a communication between the
north and south of Essex.
It was very little used, for in its whole course of
twenty miles it scarcely touched on half a dozen vil-
lages, and a similar road which ran parallel to it, but
several miles inland, was the main highway into Suffolk.
It was not surprising that the Red House had been
unoccupied for many years. It had been built by a
man who had been interested in the oyster-fisheries,
and who thought it would be well to be near the spot
where he had invested the money.
He lived there for ten years and then hanged himself
from one of the upper windows facing the sea. He
was a bachelor, and it was surmised that the awful
loneliness of the place had unhinged his mind, for his
business had prospered exceedingly, and there was
absolutely no other reason for his suicide.
The house itself was as unattractive as the scenery
that surrounded it—a great, bare building, badly con-
structed of very inferior bricks.
Behind it lay numerous outhouses and sheds, and a
brick stable large enough to accommodate a dozen
horses and as many carts or carriages. A tarred fence
some three hundred yards in circumference enclosed a
piece of ground which had once been a garden.
The knoll, on which the house stood, was about ten
acres in extent, and was supposed to be the site of an
old Roman camp. A faint square outline of trench


The Red House
75
sion and emotion but revenge. A callous, cold-hearted
ruffian, a monomaniac, who wanted only one thing in
the world, and whose brain would never rest until he
had found it.
When he left Portland he had a few pounds in his
pocket, and he cast about in his mind how he could
earn his living and make money. He did not want
money for the pleasures that gold can buy, but because
money is power, and without it he would be powerless
to accomplish his task.
He spent several weeks looking for a job that offered
some prospects in the future. He was a man of fine
commercial capabilities, and with a few hundred
pounds of capital he could doubtless have soon built
up a business. But he was handicapped by want of
money, and he realised that he had to start at the very
bottom.
The idea of a clerkship was distasteful to him. He
knew only too well how few chances came to a clerk,
and how the most splendid abilities have rusted for
years at the office desk.
He picked up an odd job here and there and kept
himself alive, travelling about the country on foot from
place to place. During this time he made diligent
inquiries for his son.
He had no intention of making himself known to
him, nor of asking for assistance, but his heart yearned
for some news of the boy. He learned nothing, save
that Mr. and Mrs. Behag were both dead, and that the
boy had run away to sea.


76
The Black Motor-Car
He also made inquiries about Marie de la Mothe, but
he found out absolutely nothing about her movements.
He was hampered in his search by want of money, and
resolved to wait until he could pay detectives to prose-
cute a systematic inquiry.
At last, after a long period of semistarvation, he
found the opening that he required. At that time the
motor-car industry was in its infancy in France, but
astute men of business were already trying to grasp the
future possibilities of the petrol-driven machine.
Capital was being slowly, but steadily, sunk in the
business, and the only difficulty was the shortage of
skilled labour. Labour has always been more conserv-
ative than capital, and has always fought shy of any.
thing new.
It was a fortunate circumstance for John Porteous
that mechanical engineering had been one of the hob-
bies of his earlier days. As a boy he had invested all
his spare savings in little vertical and horizontal engines
that had whizzed round wildly and perilously under the
influence of methylated spirits.
At the age of sixteen he had been apprenticed to an
engineering firm, and had remained there for two years
at a salary of five shillings per week. Then his ideas of
life had become enlarged, and, seeing no prospect of
earning a living wage for several years, he had gone into
a bank.
Engineering, however, remained his hobby, and he
read much on the subject in his leisure hours, and had
even made some small inventions, which were of no


The Red House
77
practical value, but which stood in the same relation
to his reading as problems do to the books of Euclid.
As things turned out, this harmless hobby proved of
more value to him than all the years spent in the intri-
cacies of banking. On the strength of his mechanical
knowledge, he applied for and obtained a position with
Jacquart et Cie., a new motor-car firm that had just
been started in France.
He picked up the language in a few months, and be-
fore he had been there a year the directors recognised
that they had got hold of a man who might do much
for them, and whose mechanical skill was nothing com-
pared to his commercial capabilities.
He was speedily transferred from the constructive to
the executive part of the business, and before another
two years had elapsed he found himself general manager
of a fine business, with a liberal remuneration and a com-
mission that brought him in three times his fixed salary.
Under his able management the business grew and
throve exceedingly. He invested his savings in the
company. He was elected to a vacant seat on the
board. Motors were then on the boom, and he raked
in money hand over fist.
To the outer world he was a capable and successful
business man. Few people could ever guess for what
purpose he toiled and saved and grew rich. None
knew of the fierce fires that burnt beneath the calm and
calculating surface of his mind.
And he himself did not know the whole truth, for he
did not guess that the seeds of insanity had been sown


78
The Black Motor-Car
in these fourteen years of humiliation and despair, and
that the time of reaping was near at hand.
When he had saved thirty thousand pounds he re-
tired from business and returned to England, bringing
with him a fifty-horse-power car. He considered that
it would be of assistance to him in his search.
He would have in it a speedy means of locomotion
from place to place; he would be independent of trains
and time-tables. He could scour the country from
John O'Groat's to Land's End, and follow up every
clue in person.
But no such clue came to William Jordison. The
practised skill of detectives failed to discover anything
of Marie de la Mothe or his son.
For six months he lived in London, and then, on one
of his frequent tours through Essex, he saw the Red
House, and the loneliness of it appealed to him.
He purchased it for a mere song, and decided to make
it his headquarters. The noise of London was working
horribly on his nerves, and the rush and hum of his
motor-car gave the only relief from the ceaseless rattle of
the traffic. He longed for silence where he could think.
He did not realise that it was unwise for him to think
too much, and that the very distractions of a great city
prevented him from brooding over his past life.
He sought rest. The Red House offered it almost as
completely as a desert island might have done. It was,
moreover in Essex, the county where young Richard
Behag was last seen, and where presumably the first
clue would be found by those who sought for him.


CHAPTER VIII
“RICHARD BEHAG IS DEAD"
William Jordison sat in a small room on the first floor
of the Red House. It overlooked the eastern marshes,
and from his chair he could see the sunlight sparkling
on the ocean.
The chair was drawn up to a large deal table set close
to the window. The table was covered with plans,
pencils, rulers and compasses. He was measuring out
fractions of a line with a diagonal scale.
The room was bare and comfortless. Its sole furni-
ture consisted of a hard wooden chair, a table, and a row
of plain deal shelves heaped up with papers. The walls
were decorated with plans of machinery. On the top
of the book-shelf was a half-finished working model of a
motor-car nearly two feet in length.
William Jordison was playing with what had once
been part of his daily work—the perfecting of a new
invention which would reduce the cost of running a car
to almost nothing, which would simplify the machinery,
and which would generate a horse-power hitherto un-
dreamed of in the trade.
The invention had been abandoned before it had been
placed on a practical basis, and it was not until he had
given up business that he turned to it once again. It
79


80
The Black Motor-Car
formed some relaxation from the serious purpose of his
life.
Every now and then he looked up from the drawings
on the table and gazed abstractedly out of the window,
apparently lost in thought. On such occasions the
lines round his mouth deepened and a heavy scowl
darkened his forehead. Any one looking at him during
these moments would have said that it was the face of a
criminal-animal, brutal, debased in every feature.
Finally he threw the pencil down, tore up the drawing
in front of him and rose to his feet. His playtime was
over. He paced up and down the room with knitted
brows and hands clasped behind his back.
In a few minutes' time there was a slow, heavy foot-
step on the stairs outside. Then the door opened and a
man entered. He was short and thick-set, with a low
forehead, bestial mouth, and a sullen, clean-shaven
face.
Jordison could not stand the sight of a woman in the
house. He had three men-servants, and a more unpre-
possessing trio could scarcely have been chosen for the
purpose.
They had been selected from the worst types of hu-
manity, and were, in point of fact, three convicts who
had escaped from Portland jail the year before. They
served Jordison's purpose, however. Their faithful-
ness was practically assured, for the terrors of the law
still hung over their heads.
Jordison's only fear was that they might choose to
preserve their secret by killing him. He was prepared


“ Richard Behag is Dead”
81
for such an emergency. A loaded revolver was always
to hand, in his pocket by day, under his pillow at night.
“Well, Lipp,” he said, as the man entered.
“Jermy's just brought the second post from Gore-
haven," the man replied sullenly, holding out a letter in
his dirty muscular fingers.
Jordison took the letter, and glanced at the handwrit-
ing. A flush came to his haggard face. The servant
still waited, scowling as though he had received some
insult.
“Well, Lipp," said the master of the house, piacing
the letter in his pocket, “how are things going on?”.
“They're making an 'orrid mess in the garden, and
they're damned slow. I've bin round talking to 'em,
and if I'aven't scared 'em, may— "
“Quite right, Lipp,” Jordison broke in; "any news
from Gorehaven?”
“This damned election's driving 'em all crazy. They
collared Jermy and asked him to vote straight and true,
and filled 'im up with drink.”
“Drink!” Jordison said sharply; "Jermy drunk ?
I'll have no drunken blackguards about this house."
"Drunk, lor' bless yer. There ain't a drink made
that could fuddle old Jermy in an afternoon; 'is 'ead's
as clear as a bloomin' bell. Swelp me ".
“That'll do,” Jordison said sternly. “Have those
castings come yet from Sheffield ?”.
“Those that ain't in the mud," the man replied with
a grin, and he told the story of the accident in a few
words, liberally sprinkled with high-coloured epithets.


82
The Black Motor-Car
Jordison appeared to take no interest in the narrative.
However, he made a note on a piece of paper.
“See that I get the rest of the castings to-morrow,
Lipp,” he said quietly. “You may go.” The man
went, but when he reached the door his master called
him back.
“Have they begun excavating for the bed of the
engine-house, Lipp?”.
“Not as I knows of. The 'ole place is in such a
bloomin' mess that they might be going to dig a coal-
mine."
“Well, tell Bysouth's foreman that I want it done at
once, and that everything else must be postponed until
it is finished. He has the plans. The engine will be
here next week.”
“Orl right, guvner. I'll make 'em jump," and the
man slouched toward the door.
“And be civil with these people, Lipp,” Jordison con-
tinued; "they're independent folk, and I don't want
them to go off and leave me in the lurch.”
“Orl right, guvner," the man replied without turning
round. “I'll be as sweet as jam.”
The door closed behind him with a crash, and the
sound of his clumsy feet died away on the uncarpeted
staircase.
Jordison smiled grimly. “A nasty customer,” he
said to himself. “I expect he had all the benefit of the
doubt when the jury brought in a verdict of man-
slaughter. But he'll do for the present.” He walked
over to the window and sat on the table. Then he


“Richard Behag is Dead”
83
pulled the letter out of his pocket, opened it, and perused
it carefully. It ran as follows:
"DEAR SIR: We have at last obtained some clue to
the movements of Mr. Richard Behag. It is certain
that he embarked as a common seaman on the brig
Valetta, bound for Valparaiso, and that he left the ship
at that port. Further search will be expensive, as it
will entail a journey to South America. Are you pre-
pared to go on? It will probably cost you at least one
thousand pounds, but we will cut down all expenses as
much as possible. We enclose our account to date. A
cheque will oblige.
“Your obedient servants,
“BRIGGS & WARLOCK."
“One thousand pounds,” he murmured, and then he
laughed and, sitting down at the table, filled in a tele-
gram form.
“BRIGGS & WARLOCK, 21 Ship Street, Strand: Pro-
ceed with search. Spare no necessary expense.
“JORDISON.”
Then he rang the bell and glanced at the account. It
came to three hundred forty-seven pounds ten shillings
and three pence, of which more than half had been spent
on the useless search for Mrs. de la Mothe. He smiled
as he read some of the items; little trivial details of daily
expenditure, pennies, sixpences, half-crowns, stretching


84
The Black Motor-Car
over pages and pages, and mounting up with extraordi-
nary rapidity.
“If it costs me all I have,” he said to himself, “I will
see it through. There's lots more money to be had in
the world.”
In five minutes' time Lipp entered.
"Have the horse put in the dogcart at once, Lipp,”
said Jordison, “and get Jermy to drive you into Gore-
haven. This telegram must go at once. Look sharp."
He gave the man the telegram, and the latter left, mum-
bling something to himself. When he had gone, Jordi-
son paced up and down the room. His face was flushed
and his eyes sparkled with unwonted brilliancy.
“If I could only find him," he murmured. “If I
could only find him, it might yet save me from this other
search, and the duty that lies at the end of it.” Jordi-
son knew well that love for his son was the only redeem-
ing trait in his character, and that this alone could drag
him from the path he wished to tread.
The room seemed stifling, and he longed for the fresh
air. He went down-stairs, and, crossing the garden,
which looked like part of the London County Council
improvements, made his way to the far end of the knoll.
The western sky was ablaze with crimson and gold,
and the dreary marshes which stretched for miles round
the Red House had acquired a strange beauty from the
sunset. It was just past high tide on the distant coast,
and every creek and pool and gully was full of water as
far as the eye could reach.
The unsightly mud was concealed with a garment


“ Richard Behag is Dead”
85
that reflected all the glory of the sky. The barrenness
of the land was clothed in a golden haze. Its very loneli-
ness harmonised with the quiet of the eventide. The
whole land breathed of peace. A few plovers flapped
slowly from place to place, and their plaintive cries were
the only sounds to break the silence.
Yet there was no peace in the heart of the man who
gazed abstractedly across the marshes to the sea. De-
spair, revenge, the memory of those years spent in the
lowest depths of hell, a brief thrill of hope at the news
he had received that afternoon, all these were in his
heart, but there was no peace.
Half a mile up the creek the sails of a yacht swelled in
the faint west breeze, and scemed like the wings of some
great white bird gliding over the golden waters.
As it came nearer, Jordison began to regard it with
interest, and wondered why it had sailed so far up the
creek. It was drifting down with the wind and tide,
but it would scarcely make the sea before dark.
Nearer the boat came and still nearer, till Jordison
could see the faces of the two men on the deck.
One was at the tiller and the other was loosing the jib
halliard from its cleet. As they came opposite the house
the bulging balloon jib came fluttering down in a crum-
pled heap of canvas, and a second later came the rattling
of the anchor-chain as it ran swiftly over the bows. The
man at the helm loosed the tiller and hauled in the main
sheet. The boat swung round with the tide till her
nose faced the west.
In less than ten minutes the men on board had stowed


86
The Black Motor-Car
sail and made everything snug for the night. Jordison
frowned and, rising to his feet, walked slowly down the
slope toward the creek. He was not pleased at the idea
of the yacht anchoring under his windows.
Before he reached the edge of the water, one of the
men had put off in the dinghey and was making it fast
to an old post on the bank. Jordison stopped and
leaned against the black tarred palings of his garden.
He had no desire to converse with strangers. The
man, however, crossed the road and came straight up to
him.
"Are you Mr. Jordison of the Red House?” he asked
abruptly.
"I am Mr. Jordison," was the curt reply.
“Well, I have got a couple of your cases here. Pitched
into the mud the day before yesterday. Suppose you
have heard all about it. You seem to take it coolly,
though. No one's been near 'em till we decided to take
'em on board this morning. They were nearly out of
sight in the mud, but we made fast to them, and waited
till high tide. Then we pulled them aboard with our
anchor-winch. You can have them when you like, but
you must send some one on board to help get them off.
I am Arthur Holme.”
"I am much indebted to you, Mr. Holme,” Jordison
replied. “Will you come into the house? We are a
little unsettled as yet, but still — ”
“No, thanks,” Holme replied, “I have got to cook
our dinner yet. My man's a duffer at the household
work, but, by gad, you should see him at the tiller in
Jordison
las yet, but stino the house


“ Richard Behag is Dead”
87
dirty weather. There's not a man on this coast to touch
him, I can tell you. Have you got any men about that
can lend a hand with the cases when the tide runs out?
I reckon we shall be high and dry then.”
“You will be stranded shortly after midnight, Mr.
Holme. There is only a foot of water in the creek at
low tide, and I suppose you draw five. I have three men
here and I will send them across. It is a full moon
to-night. Between the lot of us we ought to get the
cases ashore. How's the electioneering going, Mr.
Holme?”
“We are quite satisfied,” Holme replied. “By the
by, I suppose you haven't a vote-too late to get on the
register, eh?”
“I have no vote,” Jordison said, with a faint smile,
"but if I had, I'd give it to your party. I'm of your way
of thinking.”
“Well, you might do what you can for us. You don't
speak, I suppose ?"
“Not more than I can help,” Jordison replied grimly.
“No, I'm afraid I cannot be of much service to you. I
have a few tenants in East Wick, and I'll see that they
vote for you right enough.”
"It is good of you,” Arthur Holme replied. “I have
got the interests of this part of the world at heart. Land-
owners don't understand these fisher-folk; I do. Quy
seems a decent sort of chap, but I don't think he'll
get in. I have been a sailor myself, and served be-
fore the mast. It's a damn rough life, but it's a
good life, mark you, and it moulds good men out


88
The Black Motor-Car
of rotten material. Well, I will go and look after the
dinner, and will turn in till you come on board. Good-
night.”
“Good-night, Mr. Holme,” Jordison replied with
sadness in his voice. This rough-bearded young fellow
had brought with him the breath of the salt seas. It
would have been hard to find a greater contrast to the
general atmosphere of the Red House. To Jordison it
brought back the days of his own youth, and the young
man's voice touched some hidden chord in his hard,
callous heart.
Then a sudden idea seized him, and hurrying after
Holme's retreating figure, he came up to him as he was
untying the dinghey's painter.
“Mr. Holme,” he said quietly, “excuse me asking
you a question, but you might be able to give me some
information."
“Certainly,” Holme replied, with a smile. “If I am
able to do so.”
“You have been a sailor and mixed with seafaring
folk. Have you ever come across a young fellow of the
name of Richard Behag ?”
Arthur Holme did not answer. His back was to the
west, where a faint glow of crimson still lingered. His
face was in shadow, but to Jordison it seemed as if the
young man remembered the name and was trying to re-
call the owner of it.
“Do you happen to recollect the name, Mr. Holme?"
Jordison continued.
“Yes,” the young man replied, “I certainly recollect


90
The Black Motor-Car
"Twelve o'clock,” said Jordison pleasantly.
The young man looked up and smiled.
“That'll be all right,” he answered. “Good-bye till
then.”
Jordison had taken a keen look at the man's eyes, and
they had fallen guiltily from his glance. He turned
back and walked slowly to the house.
"Dickie dead,” he kept on repeating to himself.
“Well, Briggs & Warlock will soon find out for me in
Valparaiso, and if it is true I shall not lose sight of you,
my young man. You know more of my boy's death
than you have told me. I will find out the truth if it
cost me every penny I have in the world.” He turned
and shook his fist at the yacht in the stream.
Then he went in and stumbled up to the small room
that looked to the east, groping his way as though he
could not see.
When he reached the table by the window he sank
down in the chair, and buried his face in his hands.
For ten minutes he did not move. His mind went back
through all the years of agony and despair to the morning
when he had last seen his son.
He could almost hear his own feeble imitations of the
birds and animals of a farmyard.
“What do the fowls say, papa ? I’ze forgot."
“Cluck, cluck, cluck, and cock-a-doodle-doo.”
The wretched man rose to his feet and clenched his
hands.
“If Dickie is dead,” he murmured to himself, “there
is only one thing left to me in life.”


“ Richard Behag is Dead”
91
He sat down at the table and draughted a long tele-
gram to Briggs & Warlock to be despatched first thing
in the morning. The burden of it all was that no expense
was to be spared to find proof of Richard Behag's death.
At midnight, Jordison and his three servants went
down to the creek. It was a dark night, but there was
sufficient light to see that the yacht had moved from her
anchorage. Lipp threw the rays of his lantern over the
mud and across the narrow channel to the farther shore.
The two cases lay half a dozen yards from the bank.
They were still wet and had evidently been thrown over-
board into the water, which had gone down, and left
them on the sloping bed of the creek.
It was clear that for some reason or other Arthur
Holme had taken advantage of the falling tide to haul up
his anchor and drift down the channel.
The business had an ugly look in Jordison's eyes.
But he said nothing to his men, and they all four worked
hard to get the cases onto the bank. They were embed-
ded in two feet of slime, and the men found the task too
much for them.
After several vain efforts they gave up the task, and
breaking the case open, transferred the contents piece-
meal to the shore.
William Jordison toiled furiously, and did as much
work as the other three men combined. He had an idea
that severe physical exertion would distract his thoughts.
But he found it impossible to get rid of the subject that
was uppermost in his mind.
And all the time he was going to and fro through the


92
The Black Motor-Car
mud, black to his knees, sweating with the burden of
some great piece of iron, he was wondering why Arthur
Holme had left so suddenly. By the time the work was
over he decided that the young man had shirked another
meeting and further questions.
And he strongly suspected that Arthur Holme knew
more of the death of Richard Behag in Valparaiso than
he cared to disclose.


CHAPTER IX
NEW FRIENDSHIPS
During the next three months many things of impor-
tance occurred, which can only be briefly touched upon
in this narrative.
Lord Harry Quy was elected member for the eastern
division of Essex by a narrow margin of three votes.
The "oldest inhabitant" could not recall so keen and
exciting a contest.
Yet it was a contest singularly free from personal
animosity, and was waged with such consideration and
courtesy on either side that the more acrimonious of
both parties looked on the two candidates as singularly
deficient in the art of sword-play. Yet nothing that
could be fairly done was left undone.
In many cases two solid hours were devoted to the
conversion of some deaf old man, who knew nothing of
politics and cared less. The cause received no mercy
on either side. It was made clear to every one in the
district that both the Liberal and the Conservative poli-
cies were the creations of the devil himself.
The bewildered fishermen and cottagers had only to
decide which was the worst. In the end Stacey Clarke
lost the seat by five votes, which a re-count reduced to
three. William Jordison smiled when he saw the result,
93


94
The Black Motor-Car
for the seven votes he had promised to Arthur Holme
were given to Lord Harry Quy.
These events concerned the outside world, but other
matters, of even more importance to the private indi-
viduals in this story, took place during these three
months.
In the first place a thing happened that was known
only to two people. Lord Harry, on the strength of his
parliamentary success, asked Lady Agnes Cliffe to be
his wife. She refused his offer, tearfully and patheti-
cally, as though afraid of the consequences.
He had been her friend from childhood, and she
dreaded the rupture of the friendship. But Lord Harry
Quy took the blow like a man. He laughed away her
tears, kissed her hand, and left her with the assurance
that what had happened would not in any way alter
the good-fellowship that had hitherto existed between
them.
Lord Harry, for his part, had no intention of cutting
himself adrift from her society. He had not yet given
up all hope, though he knew in his heart that they could
never be such good and close friends as they had been
in the past, unless they became something more than
friends in the future.
In the second place, Lord Harry Quy and Arthur
Holme had conceived a strong affection for each other.
This was necessarily kept in the background during
the strenuous times of electioneering, but, directly the
contest was over, they let their feelings have full play,
to the scandal of the narrowminded of both parties, who


New Friendships
95
could not conceive a union of personal friendship and
political animosity.
The friendship was in many ways a strange one. It
was true that Holme had saved Lord Harry's life, but a
debt of gratitude does not as a rule make for real friend-
ship, and the dissimilarity of their two characters would
seem to have stood in the way of anything but a general
acquaintance.
Arthur Holme was a young man who took life very
seriously. His whole heart had been in the election,
and he was bitterly disappointed at the result. Lord
Harry Quy, on the other hand, did not care a penny
for politics, and would just as soon have been a Liberal
as a Conservative, if the father of Lady Agnes Cliffe
had been of the former way of thinking.
Arthur Holme, moreover, was grim and saturnine for
so young a man, while Lord Harry was the very essence
of geniality. The latter, again, was of high birth. The
very parentage of the former was wrapt in obscurity.
He had sprung from nowhere, a man without name or
reputation. He had to stand entirely on his personal
qualities. It was a strange irony of fate, indeed, that
made these two fast friends.
One result of this friendship was subsequently des-
tined to have far-reaching consequences. Arthur
Holme received more than one invitation to accompany
Lord Harry to Heatherstone Hall. The Earl of Heath-
erstone could be gracious to a fallen foe, for this, indeed,
is one of the easiest of human virtues.
He was pleased to bestow his patronage on the agent


96
The Black Motor-Car
of the defeated Liberal candidate. Mrs. Maxwell-
Frinton compared him to a Roman victor, who liked to
drag about a prisoner at the wheels of his chariot. But,
as a matter of fact, Lord Heatherstone's attitude was
not entirely that of the conqueror. For all his pride
and pomposity he was a keen judge of men, and he saw
in Arthur Holme certain qualities that would be very
useful to the Conservative cause, if they could be direct-
ed into the right channel. Lord Heatherstone's family
had been trained through generations to see far across
the political horizon.
And he foresaw in the near future one of those great
political upheavals wherein men of all parties are shuf-
fled together and dealt out in two new packs. In such
a crisis, a young man like Holme, a man of high ideals,
would be a valuable adherent.
Holme, on his part, did not respond very warmly to
these advances. But his insight into the future was
nearly as keen as that of the noble Earl, and he saw a
possible advantage to himself from an apparent friend-
ship with the great house of Heatherstone. He was a
young man who could not afford to throw away a chance.
And so it came to pass that Arthur Holme was fre-
quently at Heatherstone Hall, and before very long one
member of the family began to look forward to his visits
with more eagerness than prudence.
Lady Agnes Cliffe had no excuse whatever for the
interest she began to take in this somewhat rough and
surly young man, whom Lord Harry had brought to the
house.


New Friendships
97
He admired her beauty, and saw much to love in her
disposition, but, regarding her in the light of a possible
wife for his friend, he went out of his way to dismiss her
from his thoughts, and to avoid any unnecessary conver-
sation with her.
Lord Harry's feelings in this quarter were plain and
manifest, and Arthur Holme was strong-minded enough
to avoid any possible temptation, which might lead him
to interfere with his friend's happiness.
He noticed with some uneasiness that Lady Agnes
had begun to regard him with interest, and he secretly
resolved that his visits to Heatherstone Hall would have
to become less frequent. The girl was too proud and
modest to give any outward indication of her feelings,
but for all that Holme instinctively felt that he was
occupying her thoughts rather more than was desirable
for either of them.
Lady Agnes, on her part, would have laughed if any
one had told her that she was beginning to think too
much about a young man of unknown parentage and
rather unprepossessing manners.
She deluded herself into the idea that she was a stu-
dent of human character, and that this particular speci-
men interested her by reason of its rarity in her own
sphere of life.
Most of the young men she knew—and many young
men fluttered around Heatherstone Hall-were of two
entirely different types: the one well-set, well-groomed
young fellows, mostly sportsmen and athletes; men care-
less of serious matters, but trained to a nicety in the


98
The Black Motor-Car
choice of a dog, a horse, or a gun; gentlemen of honour
and reputation, all of them, for Lord Heatherstone was
careful what men he asked to the house; not foolish nor
vacuous, but singularly devoid of any definite purpose
in life. The other class were political young men, many
of them keen and intellectual, but all self-seeking and
subservient to the great Lord Heatherstone; the “rising
hopes of the Tory party,” each with his own axe to grind,
and more than one of them with an eye to the advan-
tages that might accrue to him if he could marry the
Lady Agnes Cliffe.
Arthur Holme was like none of these men. In many
respects he was inferior, but the girl found something in
him that coincided with her own views of life.
She had grown up to believe herself a democrat, a
friend of the oppressed lower classes, and, like most
ladies of rank who espouse the cause, she believed the
poor were much more miserable and oppressed than
they really are.
Her social views were unsound, but her practical expo-
sition of them gained her many humble friends in the
county. She went about doing good, and there was no
doubt that she won Lord Harry his seat in Parliament.
Now Arthur Holme was also a friend of the people,
and therein lay a real solid bond between these two, yet
one that was weak in comparison to the links of steel
that Time was forging for them on his anvil.


CHAPTER X
A BURIED PALACE
When Jordison had despatched the telegram to
Messrs. Briggs & Warlock, he tried to thrust the matter
from his mind, and threw himself heart and soul into the
construction of his new motor-car.
Day after day he shut himself up in the little room
that looked out over the eastern marshes, and night after
night he sat at the deal table till his brain grew too weary
to think, and the plans and figures swam before his eyes.
Happy is the mind that can forget its sorrows in work
or dull its pain in sheer weariness of physical exertion.
Jordison worked hard and he worked late, but he could
not forget that his work was far removed from the pur-
pose of his life.
Never an hour passed in which he did not turn away
from the papers before him, and think of the son that
was lost to him; of the woman with whom he had yet to
settle a long-standing account.
And even his wife had her place in these movements
of remembrance. He could plainly see the bowed head
on the desk, feel the stiffened arms, and read from the
tear-stained page the poem he had marked for her in the
days of their courtship.
It was the curse of his life that he could not forget.
99


100
The Black Motor-Car
He fought with the memories, and beat them down into
oblivion, and turned to his work with renewed energy.
The pangs were short, for he stifled them, but they
were insistent and inevitable—two or three minutes,
perhaps, out of each hour, but every second of these
minutes full to the brim with pain.
Yet for all these interruptions, Jordison's mind
worked with mechanical precision. It was the mind of
an expert moving steadily in a fixed direction, neglecting
no chance that might lead to ultimate success, weighing
every possibility, working out every calculation with
exactitude.
The moments came when all the work became a chaos
and figures and plans were whirled away like dust in a
storm. But the rest of the time Jordison's mind was
calm and even. Every line was drawn true and firm,
every calculation was absolutely accurate, even to ten
places in decimals.
And success came to Jordison at last, as it comes to
most men with an earnest purpose. The whole of one
day and the whole of one night he sat at his deal table
and made calculations and measured lines and drew
plans to scale.
And when the grey light of morning came through the
window it showed a white face still poring over a grow-
ing heap of papers, a white haggard face with a gleam of
triumph in the restless eyes. And on paper the motor.
car had become an accomplished fact.
Jordison was no dreamy inventor, but a practical
workman. All the time he had been toiling with his


A Buried Palace
· 101
brain, others had been toiling with their hands. Before
he had completed his invention, the engine-house was
built, the engine installed, a lathe fixed up, and a brick
furnace erected.
Two practical mechanics were engaged, and every-
thing was ready for the fitting together of the machinery
before the whole design had assumed a definite form.
Directly Jordison's brain had accomplished part of
its task, the work of construction commenced, and the
framework of the car was completed before the finishing
touches had been put to the plans for the machinery.
Every week castings came in from various firms with
whom the orders had been placed. These were filed
and finished off and fitted together in the workshop.
In less than three months from the date when the first
castings had been thrown into the creek, the car was
completed, and Jordison sold his fifty horse-power Jac-
quart for nine hundred pounds.
On October 25th Jordison took the first run on his
new motor. It was blowing half a gale, pouring with
rain, and the roads were deep in mud and water. It
was a severe test for the new car, but she came through
it splendidly and ploughed through the storm like a ship
through a heavy sea, throwing up a shower of mud, like
spray, on each side of her. Jordison revelled in the
ride.
The wind and rain lashed him like a whip, but he
drove through it all at the top speed, and gloried in the
power of his new-found joy. He was an experienced
motorist, and knew, before he had gone half a dozen


102
The Black Motor-Car
miles, that no one had ever driven such a car as this
before.
For three hours he sat with his hand on the steering
wheel, and in that time they had traversed Essex from
north to south and east to west. Lipp sat shivering and
cursing by his side.
He was there to learn all about the monster that
jumped and quivered beneath him. He was commenc-
ing his education as a chauffeur. But he only took a
feeble interest in the proceedings; and while Jordison
explained the art of driving, his whole mind was occu-
pied with wondering when the car would be scattered in
pieces over the roadway.
For, like many experts, Jordison cut his corners very
close indeed.
Lipp's face did not brighten until they came within
sight of the Red House. The ugly building on the little
hill had never appeared in so attractive a light to him
before. No mariner returning from a stormy voyage
could have welcomed the first glimpse of home with
greater joy and thankfulness.
Then, as they rushed along the straight road, the hill
in front of them was suddenly hidden in a flash of blind-
ing light. A few seconds later a loud report burst on
their ears, and the ground trembled beneath them.
Instinctively Jordison put on the brake, just as a man
shuts his eyes to protect them from danger, not stopping
to reason whether he will come to harm or not.
The great car slowed down, and, peering through the
driving rain, the two occupants saw a heavy cloud of


104
The Black Motor-Car
at the gate. The wind was from the southwest, and the
smoke was carried away from them, but it hid the Red
House from view.
Jordison did not much care whether any one was
killed or not, but he was very thankful that the car was
finished, and that it had not been blown to pieces in the
explosion.
A large supply of petrol had been stored near the
engine-house. That very afternoon he had intended to
remove it to a safer place. It had now removed itself,
and in all probability most of the engine-house as well.
He had no desire to plunge into the thick and awful
smoke and investigate matters. He sounded the horn
on the car a dozen times and waited for information.
In two minutes' time Jermy appeared round the bot-
tom of the hill. He was black with oily soot from head
to foot. His right cheek was bleeding, and he limped.
“Well, Jermy,” said Jordison, “is there much dam-
age done?”
“Curse you, and your-motors,” the man growled,
echoing Lipp's sentiments almost to the very words in
which they had been expressed. “'Arf a brick's
caught my leg, and a bit of somethin' 'as grazed my
cheek, and— "
“I am not anxious about you, Jermy,” Jordison
broke in abruptly; "what about the house?”
“It stands,” Jermy replied. “I've not been in it,
and shan't till the smoke's gone. The engine-house is
now an' ole in the ground, as far as I can see.”
“Where's Susanson ?"


A Buried Palace
105
“ 'Iding in a ditch, and calling down the wrath of
'eaven on yer 'ead.”
Jordison laughed. At any rate the Red House was
not in ruins. He had no further use for the engine-
house. Then his voice grew stern.
“Who's been fooling with the dynamite?” he said
abruptly.
“Better ask Susanson,” the man replied. "He's
been poking about in the shed all the morning.”
For three hours the men waited and watched the
smoke pour away toward the east. The air was full of
smuts and their faces grew black with soot.
From where they sat they could feel the fierce heat of
the blazing petrol. Half a dozen times they worked
their way round the foot of the hill, and tried to ascend
the other side to the house.
But the thick smoke drove them back, and they real-
ised that they would have to wait until the fire had
burnt itself out.
During this period of waiting they had several visitors.
Men came up on carts and bicycles, some even in boats,
all anxious to discover the cause of the great column of
smoke that had been seen for miles round like the pillar
of cloud that had guided the Israelites in the wilderness.
But each and all were courteously sent about their
business. Jordison explained the disaster in a few
words, and expressed his capability to deal with it with-
out any aid but that of his servants.
Toward dark the blazing spirit burnt itself out. The
flames dwindled down to flickering sheets of blue,


106
The Black Motor-Car
sweeping along the ground and spouting up from the
crevices where the petrol still lay hid. The dense vol-
ume of smoke died away into a thick stream of vapour
that the wind scattered as soon as it formed.
Susanson emerged from his hiding-place and came
crawling up with request for food and water.
He was questioned as to the explosion, but nothing
could be got out of him. Both Lipp and Jermy kicked
him, and Jordison did not interfere. Then all four men
made their way to the Red House.
In the fading light they could see the ravages wrought
by the explosion. The engine-house was, as Jermy had
said, a mere hole in the ground, a pit of smoking débris.
From it, as from the centre of a star, ran great cracks
and fissures in the rock, some nearly two feet in width.
The Red House itself still stood, but there was not a
pane of glass in the windows, and not a chimney left
standing on its roofs. The walls were seamed with
narrow cracks, and the whole building leant two or
three degrees out of the perpendicular.
On two sides it was as black as though it had been
built of coal, but it had fortunately been beyond the
reach of the flames, and only the smoke had touched it.
Within they found a veritable chaos. Most of the
ceilings had come down in a shower of plaster, and the
bare laths showed through like the bones of a skeleton.
Pictures, ornaments, and crockery lay heaped on the
floor, the wallpaper was covered with ominous lines,
and every room that the oily smoke had penetrated was
black with soot.


108
The Black Motor-Car
seemed to sink away under his feet, and there was the
sound of falling rock beneath him. Quick as thought
he flung himself back and clutched one of the wine-bins
on the wall. The woodwork lurched toward him and
the bottles flew from their places. Underneath his
feet the ground dropped away, and he could hear bot-
tles and pieces of stone falling into some cavity beneath.
He tried for a foothold, and the wine-bin moved another
degree outward. Then he hung still, and felt the whole
structure lean farther and farther from the wall.
At last it ceased to give, but trembled in the balance.
Three yards to the left the overturned lantern lay on
solid stone. He thanked God that it still gave light.
He acted quickly. Hand-over-hand he moved along
the wine-bin. With every movement it quivered and
seemed about to fall over into the depths below. But it
held till his legs struck the edge of the hole. With a
final effort he drew himself up on the floor, and rolled
over and over toward the light. As he did so, the wine-
bin came toppling over, and far below he heard the crash
of broken glass.
He crawled to the foot of the steps and lay there pant-
ing for breath. He did not understand what had hap-
pened, but it seemed to him as though the whole world
was crumbling away beneath his feet. He knew that he
must ascend the steps. Yet for the moment he could
not stir, but lay inert, helpless, motionless as a log. His
clothes were soaked with wine, and the fumes of it rose
to his brain.
Then with a violent effort he roused himself, sprang


A Buried Palace
109
to his feet, and touching the walls on either side of him,
as though afraid that they would elude his hands, stag-
gered up the stairs.
That night they all slept in the loft over the stables.
Jordison told them plainly that the house itself might
fall through the crust of the earth at any moment.
But the next morning Jordison told Lipp to get a
rope and a couple of lanterns. He was determined to
investigate what lay beneath the cellar and find out for
himself whether it would be safe to remain any longer
in the Red House.
Lipp made the rope fast to one of the bars of the pan-
try windows at the head of the stairs, and taking the
heavy coils on his arm, moved cautiously down to the
cellar, and flung them into the black gulf that yawned
beneath him. They could hear the rope strike the bot-
tom, and knew that it was long enough for their purpose.
Then Jordison placed a rug beneath the rope and the
jagged edge of the broken flagstones, and, hanging the
lantern round his neck, lowered himself hand-over-hand
into the pit.
When he had descended about twenty yards his feet
found foothold on the bottom, and he called out to Lipp,
who proceeded to follow him. Jordison watched the
spark of light descending like a star through the dark-
ness, until the servant reached his side. The floor be-
neath them was strewn with débris, broken rock, and
flooring, spattered with glass and drenched with wine.
The bin lay two yards away from them, a crushed and
splintered frame of woodwork.


IIO
The Black Motor-Car
Jordison wedged one of the lanterns firmly between
two pieces of rock and took the other from Lipp's hand.
He picked his way carefully through the fallen glass
and stone till he reached a wide expanse of smooth floor,
stretching as far as the light would penetrate. He
stooped down and examined it. Then he brushed
away the layer of dust that covered it, and gave an excla-
mation of surprise. For underneath this soft carpet
spread by the hand of nature through many centuries,
appeared the regular squares of a tessellated pavement,
black and red alternately, highly glazed and beautifully
designed. In a moment he knew that he had made a
discovery of great archæological interest. Without a
doubt the place, whatever purpose it served, was the
work of the Romans.
A closer inspection revealed a large chamber nearly
one hundred feet square. The walls were smoothly
chiselled from the solid rock, but here and there a deep
rough hollow in the surface showed that the room was
a natural cavity in the hill, and that the hand of man
had merely planed and shaped it to its present regular
form. In places the faint outlines of frescoes were
visible on the walls, but time had reduced the paint to a
dull blur of colour, an indistinct shadow of what had once
been, perhaps, the work of a great artist.
Jordison was less interested in archæology than in
the safety of his house. And the most beautiful frescoe
in the world would not have distracted his attention
from a crack in the rock that lay beneath it. By the
feeble light of the lantern he scanned every inch of the


A Buried Palace
III
surface within view. He discovered two small fissures
on opposite sides of the chamber. From the position
of the light he had left burning at the foot of the rope he
calculated that the crack was continuous from one side
of the room to the other, and that it ran through the hole
in the cellar floor. It was evident that the rock had
given way at its weakest point.
On one side of this great chamber there was a large
opening ten feet square, and on the other a smaller one
no bigger than an ordinary doorway. The two men
explored the latter first, and found that it led into an-
other room about twenty feet by sixteen feet, and
twelve feet high. This again led into another and
yet another apartment. In all there were seven rooms
of various sizes, and each of them a joy to the anti-
quarian. The tessellated pavement in one of them
surpassed in beauty anything of the sort that had ever
been found in the British Isles. It was a dull pur-
ple, veined with gold, and the gold beneath its glaze was
as bright as the day it had been laid on by some Roman
craftsman.
Traces of the vanished occupants were few and far
between. Half a dozen pieces of pottery, three brass
coins with indecipherable inscriptions, a piece of steel
that might once have been part of the blade of a sword,
thick piles of dust, sown with small nails, perhaps all
that was left of the luxurious couches and richly carved
tables. These, with one exception, were all that the
masters of the world had left behind them.
This exception lay in the last room of all, a tiny


112
The Black Motor-Car
chamber scarcely ten feet square. Here, half hidden
in a great heap of dust, lay the bones of a man. The
fleshless fingers of his right hand still touched a small
bone cross. God only knows what tragedy of faith lay
hidden in this silent tomb.
Jordison and Lipp betrayed no interest in their dis-
coveries, and retracing their steps, commenced to explore
the larger opening on either side of the great hall. It
proved to be a mere tunnel, sloping downward into the
earth. The roof and walls were rough and irregular,
varying in height and width to such an extent that it was
quite evident that the passage was the work of nature
and not of man. The latter, however, had done good
work on the floor. This had been smoothed down to a
surface at least as good as a country road. Neither
Lipp nor Jordison noticed the remarkable difference
between the floor and the walls. But an expert would
have told them that the Romans were a military nation,
and whereas they cared nothing for what lay above or on
either side of them, they cared much for the surface that
their soldiers had to march over.
The tunnel apparently led to no further chambers,
but ran on in a straight line toward the east. When the
two men had traversed it about half a mile, it ceased to
slope downward. They walked on for an hour, and
still did not come to the end of the passage. It began
to curve and wind in various directions. But Jordison
consulted a small compass which hung on his watch-
chain, and found that the general trend of the passage
was still toward the east. Lipp was for turning back,


A Buried Palace
II3
but Jordison insisted on going forward. His curiosity
was aroused. He guessed that the tunnel did not lead
aimlessly into the bowels of the earth.
They walked on for another hour, Lipp cursing at
every step they took, and even Jordison began to won-
der whether they had better not retrace their steps. His
opinion of the Romans neared a vanishing point. It
seemed a lamentable waste of time and energy to con-
struct a road of this sort.
At last they came to the end of the passage. It termi-
nated, not in a blank and solid wall, but in a heaped-up
pile of rock. The roof had fallen in and barred all fur-
ther progress. It was impossible to tell whether the end
was just beyond the barrier, or whether the tunnel still
ran miles farther into the east. As far as Lipp and Jordi-
son were concerned, this was the end. Yet Jordison
fancied that some air percolated through the heap of
broken stone that lay in front of him, and the candle,
burnt almost to the socket, flickered gently when he
opened the front of the lantern.
There was nothing more to be done, and certainly
nothing more to be seen. Jordison put a new candle
in the lantern, and the two men retraced their steps.
It was nearly dark when they emerged from the cellar
and breathed the fresh air again.
Neither Lipp nor Jordison attached any importance
to their day's work. The former characterised it as "a
damned piece of tomfoolery.” The latter could not
make up his mind whether the house rested on a safe
foundation or not. Certainly neither of them guessed


114
The Black Motor-Car
that their future existence would depend on the handi-
work of men who had died before the dawn of civilisa-
tion in England.
Yet even then beneath the débris of plaster in the hall
of the Red House lay a letter which the postman had
slipped through the slit in the door the previous after-
noon, and which was destined to direct William Jordi-
son's career into a channel of which he had not as yet
the faintest knowledge, and for which as yet he had not
the faintest desire.


CHAPTER XI
A RUINED MAN
Jordison and his servants spent the next three days in
converting the spacious stables into a temporary resi-
dence, in shifting furniture, and in endeavouring to adapt
themselves to circumstances. The Red House was pal-
pably unsafe. Jordison had no means of gauging the
thickness of the rock that lay beneath it, but if, as he
feared, that rock was cracked in half from end to end, it
was probable that the whole building would one day
crash through into the cavern beneath it.
It was not until the third day after the disaster that
Lipp, carrying a washing-stand on his brawny shoulder,
stumbled in the débris at the hall-door and turned up a
letter from the pile of glass and plaster on the floor. He
brought it to Jordison in the harness-room, which the
latter had fitted up as his own particular sanctum.
Jordison looked at the postmark and saw that it was
three days old. But he opened it without any feelings
of annoyance at the delay. On the outside the letter
was dull and uninteresting—a business envelope, ad-
dressed in a clerk's handwriting. But, before he had
finished reading it, his face was as white as the paper it
was written on, and he rose to his feet with a look of fear
and rang the bell.
I15


116
The Black Motor-Car
When Jordison had returned to England some months
previously, he had resigned his seat on the board of the
motor company, but decided to leave all his savings in a
business which promised so well, and which he had him-
self built up to a high position in the motor world. The
other directors were men of integrity and ability, and
he had every reason to believe that he had left his money
in safe hands.
This letter, however, broke in upon his security like a
thunderbolt. It was written by a crabbed and methodi-
cal old French lawyer, who had been something of a
friend to Jordison in Paris. The following is a transla-
tion:
“DEAR MR. JORDISON: I write to tell you that
Jacquart et Cie. are on their last legs. Sell your interest
before the news becomes public property. The Jew
financier, whom we supposed to be wealthy, and who
has, as you know, taken your place on the board, has
played ducks and drakes with the whole concern. He
enlarged the business to such an alarming extent that
the other directors refused to sanction the expenditure
without some personal guarantee for the additional
capital that would be required. This guarantee was
given by Jules Lanstein, and the company has shone
splendidly on the strength of it. But I happen to have
found out that this Lanstein is an adventurer who lives
by his wits, and that his guarantee is not worth the paper
it is written on. I have ascertained this for a fact, and
all Paris will know it before the week is out. The com-


A Ruined Man
117
pany has committed itself to enormous payments. Pay-
day will arrive shortly. Sell by telegram at once. The
shares stand high.
"With my most profound salutations, I am, my dear
Mr. Jordison, yours,
“HENRI DUCHELLE.”
Jordison read and reread the letter again and again,
in the hope that he had not translated it correctly, and
that he might have missed the true purport of its con-
tents. But they were too clear, and he roused himself
for action. Lipp entered the room in answer to the bell.
Jordison wrote out a telegram to some brokers in Paris,
instructing them to sell all his holding in the Jacquart
company, but to do it in such a manner as to least dis-
turb the market. And then he told Lipp to get the
motor-car ready. But scarcely had the man left the
room, when a boy rode slowly up on a red bicycle and
delivered a telegram at the door. It was brought up to
Jordison, who tore it open, and took in its contents at a
glance.
"Jacquart in liquidation. Shares unsalable. Hope
you have sold already.
“DUCHELLE.”
The thin piece of pink paper fluttered gently to the
floor from Jordison's fingers. He sat as still as though
he had been carved out of stone. His white face was
drawn and haggard, a mere pale mask of flesh, with two
burning eyes that were fixed on the dirty panes of the
little window. “Shares unsalable, shares unsalable,”


118
The Black Motor-Car
echoed and re-echoed through his brain. Yet he
could not grasp the full meaning of the words, till his
eye fell on Bysouth's account, which he had re-
ceived that morning, and which lay open on the table.
One hundred and seventy-five pounds! These figures
were concrete facts and easily to be comprehended.
Here was a bill that had to be paid at once, and yet per-
haps but a mere fraction of the bill that might have to be
paid to Messrs. Briggs & Warlock before they obtained
the information he desired. The piece of paper brought
the truth home to him—the hard, incontrovertible truth.
He was a ruined man, a powerless, feeble, helpless man.
The ground had been knocked away from under his feet.
His brain and limbs were bound by poverty. He would
never know if his son were dead or alive. He would
never find Marie de la Mothe, nor press his hard fingers
into her white throat, as he had dreamed of year after
year in his prison-cell. He was an inert log on the ocean
of life, a piece of driftwood that can neither move where
it will nor sink into oblivion beneath the waves. The
truth was gradually driven home into his brain like a
piece of red-hot steel. Ruin! Ruin! Ruin! The word
sang through his brain until it seemed to rhyme in with
the beating of his heart. He could stand the music no
longer. For a whole hour he had listened to it in silence,
a mere statue, beaten with it as a rock is lashed with
waves. He suddenly staggered to the tiny table, sank
into a chair, bowed his head, raised it again and looked
into the fire. Then his hand stole into his pocket, and he
felt the cold steel of his revolver.


A Ruined Man
119
For a few minutes he fingered it lovingly, as though it
were indeed a friend. Then he laughed bitterly, and
tried to collect his thoughts. Was this the only way?
He placed the weapon on the table before him and
looked at it inquiringly, as though it could give him an
answer from its small round mouth. It was silent,
though he could have made it speak one answer in its
own decisive way. He thrust it far from him, among
the papers on the table, and rose to his feet. His brief
spell of madness was past. His strong will reasserted
itself. Rage and disappointment were thrust into the
background. He was the old William Jordison again,
cold, hard, calculating, a man with a purpose that no
accident nor untoward circumstance could alter. He
paced up and down the room with knitted brows, and
a mouth closely tight with determination. “Money!
Money! Money!" was the song that now echoed
through the brain.
A hundred schemes for making money flashed through
his mind, and one by one he cast them aside. Some
were uncertain, some required capital, and all were too
slow, far, far too slow. The best of them would mean
seven years' servitude for his Rachel, the love that he
hugged to his heart, the accomplishment of his revenge.
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of
Susanson, the most despicable of the three precious
scoundrels he had chosen for his servants. He was a
little Jew, plump and self-satisfied, an excellent cook,
for he had once been chef in a large restaurant, where
he lost his situation and liberty by defrauding his em-


120
The Black Motor-Car
ployers out of one thousand pounds in various accounts
with tradesmen. He received twelve months' imprison-
ment and came out with a distaste for the culinary art.
He then turned his attention to high-class burglary, and
found the occupation a remunerative one in which his
confederates bore all the risk. An unfortunate miscal-
culation, however, on his part, and the treachery of a
man who had some old scores to settle, made a blank of
five years in his life. It should properly have been
seven, but he interfered with the arrangements of a pre-
judiced government, and took his present situation as a
place of refuge. He had every intention of leaving it as
soon as he had made other arrangements. His life was
not exactly a happy one at the Red House. The other
two men looked down on him as an inferior type of crim-
inal, and they kicked him into the position of a general
drudge.
He came in, as he usually did, with some whining
complaint about his fellow-servants. He had a whole-
some fear of Jordison, but he knew that the master of
the house was determined to keep order in his own
household.
"If you pleathe, thir,” he lisped.
Jordison stopped and gave him a glance that sent the
miserable fellow's heart into his boots.
“If you pleathe, thir,” he repeated nervously.
“Well,” said Jordison sharply, “what is it?”
The man plunged into a long and doleful tale to
Jermy's discredit. Jordison scarcely listened to the
details, but he gathered that owing to Jermy's conduct


A Ruined Man
121
the dinner hour would have to be altered by forty-five
minutes. Directly he had arrived at that fact he
stopped the story.
"That'll do,” he said roughly. “I'll speak to Jermy,
but see that I get dinner at the proper time, or there'll
be trouble.”
“I'll try, thir; swelp me bob, I'll try, thir."
“Get out."
The man crawled out of the room, and Jordison was
left alone with his thoughts.
A very trivial event will sometimes alter the whole
course of a man's life, and it so happened that this
chance entrance of Jacob Susanson was destined to
influence the whole career of the master of the Red
House.
The mere sight of the man suggested an idea to Jordi-
son. The suggestion came at a critical moment. At
first he thrust it from his mind as wild and impracticable.
But by degrees it forced itself upon him and became a
concrete fact. And that night he dreamed of illimitable
wealth, and saw a stream of gold and jewels pour down
from heaven like a Jacob's ladder, glittering with every
hue of the rainbow.


CHAPTER XII
THE DOWNWARD STEP
One misty night in November, a broad fan of white
light moved swiftly and silently southward along the old
Roman road. Behind it lay the long dark body of an
enormous motor-car. Its speed was terrific, but more
noticeable than the speed, from a motorist's point of
view, was the almost ghostly silence with which it tore
along the straight road. There was no throb nor beat
of machinery; no jar, nor rattle, nor vibration in any
part. A low hiss of the wheels as they whizzed over the
damp surface of the ground was the only sound that
broke the stillness of the night. It was no more, pro-
portionately, than the noise a bicycle might have made.
The ten miles between the Red House and the plan-
tation at the foot of Heatherstone Park was covered in
twelve minutes, and the machine was only run on its
second speed. When it reached the place where Arthur
Holme had pulled Lord Harry Quy out of the water it
slowed down and came to a stop under the shadow of
the trees which overhung the road. The three men
alighted quickly. One of them turned out all the lights
but the little lamp which hung behind. This he un-
hooked and let its rays fall on the motionless mass of
metal.
I 22


The Downward Step 123
“She's a beauty, Lipp,” he said in a low voice, punch-
ing one of the back tires with his clenched fist.
“There's not a car like her in England.”
Lipp grunted doubtfully. He was not a judge of the
beautiful, and certainly there was little to admire in the
car from an æsthetic point of view. It was made en-
tirely of steel, and bore some resemblance to the engine
of an armoured train. It had a nine-foot wheel-base,
and was eighteen feet in length. As it lay at rest it
looked a huge unwieldy monster, an inert mass of metal,
that four horses would have found a good load for them
to draw. It weighed no less than three tons. It was
painted black-bonnet, body, wheels, all a dead dull
black, without any lustre of enamel to relieve the gloom
of its surface. It was in truth an ugly thing, a cross
between a hearse and a locomotive. Yet it represented
the last word in motors. It was William Jordison's
triumph—the almost perfect car.
He looked at it lovingly for a minute or two, touching
the bearings here and there to see if they had become
hot, and laying his hand tenderly on its long and hid-
eous frame.
“Come along,” growled Lipp roughly, “this ain't no
beauty show. If we're out on business-
"Have you all we want?” Jordison broke in quietly,
turning the light on the man's face.
“Aye, aye,” the man growled impatiently, "unless
I've left my card-case on the 'all table.”
“Well, keep close to me. I wish it were not so infer-
nally dark, but it will be all in our favour later on. Jermy,


1 24
The Black Motor-Car
you stay by the car and keep your eyes and ears open.
If any one comes along, pretend to be tinkering with the
machinery. If you hear a shot or cries of pursuit, or
anything that sounds as if we had been discovered, start
the engines. It's just possible we may be in a hurry to
get off.”
With these parting instructions he climbed over the
wall, and the two men crept through the narrow belt of
trees. The wet bracken, breast-high in places, swished
softly as they moved through its tangled fronds. A
small animal of some kind rushed away from beneath
their feet. Just as they emerged into the open a brace
of pheasants rose with a whirr from the branches above.
“Curse the birds,” muttered Jordison, "we'll have a
keeper on us before we have done, and there'll be an-
other 'serious poaching affray in Essex.””
However, up to a certain point fortune was with them
that night. They crossed the undulating park without
attracting the attention of the two under-keepers whose
duty it was to patrol the estate after sunset, and reached
the garden, where they breathed in comparative safety.
The outline of the house was invisible against the
dark sky, but a long line of windows on the ground floor
glowed with yellow light. The upper part of the great
pile of buildings was in total darkness. They paused
under the branches of a gigantic tulip-tree and consulted
in whispers. Lipp had already obtained a considerable
knowledge of the house by means of a love-affair with
one of the under-housemaids. Jordison had visited it
more than once on show days, and a substantial tip to


The Downward Step
125
the major domo had procured him the information he
required.
Jordison looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock, an
hour when the bedrooms of a house offer the most in-
ducement to those who wish to enter them unobserved.
From where they stood they could see the windows of
Lady Heatherstone's apartments; they were over the
white drawing-room, which was now a blaze of light.
Lipp knew where to lay hands on a ladder, but it seemed
almost madness to place it against that part of the house.
On the other hand, if an entrance were effected in an-
other part, the risk of walking along the corridors would
be considerable. Lipp was for the latter course, but
Jordison preferred to take the bull by the horns and go
straight for Lady Heatherstone's bedroom. The whole
matter had been threshed out before they started, but
the sight of the well-lighted windows reopened the ques-
tion.
Suddenly a soprano voice began to sing, and the
sweet melody of Lassen's “All Souls' Day" came to the
watchers on the lawn. The notes brought no message
of love or tenderness to their ears. But the same idea
struck both of them.
“Now's the time,” said Jordis on; "where's the lad-
der?"
In less than five minutes Lipp fetched it and placed
it against the wall. The song had ceased, and a piano-
forte solo was filling the drawing-room with a loud crash
of music.
"Nothing could be better,” said Jordison; "you will


126
The Black Motor-Car
stay here, Lipp, and whistle if there is danger. It won't
take more than five minutes, if I can get them at all.”
Jordison ran swiftly up the ladder, opened the catch
of the window with a penknife and softly raised the sash.
Then he thrust his head round the corner of the silk
blind and listened. The bedroom door was open, and
he could see into the well-lighted corridor beyond.
The upper part of the house was perfectly quiet. He
could hear neither footsteps nor voices. But from the
drawing-room below there still came the low deep chords
of Rachmaninoff's “Prelude." He crept quietly into
the room, and, closing the door, locked it. Then he
went to another door, opening into the next room. It
was closed and he turned the key in the lock. Then he
drew the heavy curtain across the window and taking a
small but powerful electric lamp from his pocket, threw
its rays on the walls and floor. His eye caught the
faint sparkle of jewels on the dressing-table. He went
eagerly across to it and gathered up everything of value
that he could see—a magnificent diamond brooch, three
or four rings set with rubies and emeralds, a jewelled
purse of gold network with ten pounds in it, the hair-
brushes, scent-bottles, and all the fittings of a lady's
dressing-case, every one of solid gold, bearing an “H”
and an earl's coronet in diamonds. All these he thrust
into a small canvas bag he had brought with him, and his
eyes glittered with excitement.
His task seemed no longer a sordid one. As he had
crept into the room he had felt himself on a level with the
meanest thief that was ever put in the dock of the Old


The Downward Step
127
Bailey. It was his first essay in burglary, and the hu-
miliation of the fact had pierced even his hardened con-
science. But now, with the glitter of these gems before
his eyes, he saw the possibilities of it all—the excitement,
the risk, and the reward. Surely here was a sport at
least equal to the shooting of big game, where a man
carries his life in his hands, and where his safety depends
on the quickness of his eye and the knowledge of his
craft. For the first time he understood what the fasci-
nation of a highwayman's life must have been, and why
so many gentlemen of birth and breeding had risked
their necks in pursuit of what had hitherto appeared to
be a mean and sordid occupation. Now he realised
that in every sense of the word it was a sport, where the
sportsman pitted his own wits and courage against those
of his adversary.
And Jordison was hunting for bigger game to-night
than the few knicknacks a lady leaves on her dressing-
table. The Heatherstone jewels were famous, well
known, and much paragraphed in papers which cater
for the envious eyes of humble folk. A single pearl
necklace was valued at forty-five thousand pounds.
There was a diamond and emerald tiara which had once
graced the head of an empress. Jordison knew well
the insolent carelessness of rich people in these matters,
but it was too much to hope that such treasures as these
would be left to the mercy of a chance burglar. Lady
Heatherstone had not left her room for two years, and
during that period the jewels had not been seen in pub-
lic. Jordison had ascertained, however, that she would


128
The Black Motor-Car
not allow them to be placed in a bank, but kept them in
her own apartments, where she could personally inspect
them from time to time.
He crept softly and quickly round the room, breaking
open every drawer and box in the hope of finding some-
thing. He picked up a few trifles here and there. But
it was clear that the most valuable jewels were carefully
concealed. He did his work clumsily, for the sole
knowledge of his art had been gleaned from a few con-
versations with Susanson, and half a dozen practical
lessons on the locks of his own house. He was, how-
ever, perfectly equipped for the task, and he marvelled
at the ease with which the slender steel jimmy tore away
iron plates and locks.
It was not till he started an examination of the walls
that he found the probable hiding-place of the jewels.
Behind the curtains of the great fourposter bed he
found the square outline of a small door. It was flush
with the surface, covered with the same paper, and so
exactly fitted into the wall round it that a casual observer
might easily have passed it by. Jordison tapped it
gently with his jimmy. It gave back a metallic ring.
He passed his hands along the edge and encountered a
keyhole a few inches below the framework of the bed.
Then he placed his jimmy in the narrow crack and
exerted all his strength to burst open the lock. He
might as well have tried to move the foundations of St.
Paul's Cathedral. The door did not move outward the
hundredth part of an inch. The jimmy, wrought of
perfect steel, curved like a spring.


The Downward Step
129
Then suddenly he sprang back from the bed and
listened. A low whistle came up from beneath the win-
dow. He walked over to it and, drawing back the blind
and curtain, leaned out over the edge. He could not see
Lipp, but a thin shaft of light from one of the drawing-
room windows fell on the slender form of a young man
walking across the lawn. He was smoking a large cigar,
and as he came closer Jordison could see that he was a
mere boy. But the light was too feeble to distinguish
his face.
As ill-luck would have it, he came straight toward the
ladder. He did not, however, notice it until he was
four yards from the wall of the house. Then he stopped
and glanced at it with idle curiosity. Apparently it
conveyed nothing extraordinary to his mind; the mere
carelessness of a gardener who had been training the ivy
and creepers on the wall. But, just as he turned to
recross the lawn, his eye caught the open bedroom win-
dow. Jordison, from behind the curtains, could see
the boy's face looking upward. The light streaming
through a chink between the blinds and the sash, showed,
first a look of inquiry, then surprise, and then the tri-
umphant expression of one who had made a great dis-
covery. Jordison instinctively felt that he was trapped
and began to wonder how fast he could run. Somehow
he fancied that this stripling could give him about twenty
yards in every hundred.
But another and a more practised eye had watched
the boy's face from the shadow of the wall, where Lipp
lay huddled close into the thick ivy. Before the youth


130
The Black Motor-Car
could either move or speak, something sprang out of the
darkness and gripped him by the throat. Jordison
could see the slender figure borne backward, and pressed
quietly but with brutal strength onto the soft turf.
There was no cry nor sound, only the writhing and twin-
ing of limbs. From the drawing-room window came
the clear notes of a girl's voice, singing Tosti's “Good-
by.” Jordison felt that it was time to interfere. He
slipped out of the window and, sliding down the ladder
to the ground, went swiftly to the dark mass upon the
lawn. By the time he reached it nothing moved. In
the dim light he could see Lipp's hand still gripping
something on the ground. But nothing moved.
"Hands off, Lipp,” he whispered sternly.
The man did not move. Jordison whipped out his
revolver and placed it to the fellow's ear.
“Hands off, I say, Lipp,” he repeated; "you will kill
the boy."
Lipp knew well that no sane person would fire and
bring the whole household out on to the lawn. But he had
already come to regard his master as on the border line
of insanity, and he was taking no risks. He loosed his
hold and rose to his feet. The boy's body lay limp and
still on the lawn.
“Don't want another term, do yer?" growled the man
in a whisper. “I've saved yer that. D’yer think yer
wouldn't get caught between 'ere and the wall, if 'e cried
out? Let's off. Gimme the swag.”
Jordison handed him the canvas bag without a word,
and Lipp began to run across the lawn, but his master


The Downward Step
131
bent down over the prostrate form and for one brief
second flashed the electric light into the boy's face. It
was a hard, dissolute face for one so young, and looked
horrible with the diffused blood which Lipp's powerful
fingers had crushed into it. A great fear seized Jordi-
son, and he placed his hand over the boy's heart. It had
ceased to beat. Again he turned the light on the face,
and looked long and keenly at the features. But strange
to say, the thought uppermost in his mind was not that
the boy was dead, but that he had seen his face before.
He rose rapidly to his feet and tore through the dark-
ness, blundering through shrubs and flower-beds and
trees till he reached the park wall. In less than ten
minutes the motor was half way along the road to the
Red House.
And all that night Jordison lay awake, and the face
of the dead boy glowered at him through the darkness,
and all that night Jordison puzzled his brain to remem-
ber where he had seen the face before.


CHAPTER XIII
NEWS FROM VALPARAISO
The next morning the whole of Essex rang with the
news of the burglary at Heatherstone Hall, and the mur-
der of young Lord Overcliffe, heir to the title and the
great Heatherstone estates. By noon the story had
reached the London evening papers, and the half-penny
press worked up three columns out of the scanty material
at their disposal. Fictitious anecdotes of the family
from the time of Henry VIII supplied much of the mat-
ter. The news of the murder was brief, and was inge-
niously sandwiched between the masses of irrelevant
information. But that day saw a score of keen reporters
on the spot, and half a dozen detectives, equally keen,
but less obtrusive in their methods, and the following
morning all England knew of the Heatherstone murder.
The news came to the Red House through the postman.
Lipp brought it with the letters to William Jordison, as
the latter was at breakfast. He conveyed the news in
two words.
“Lord Overcliffe," he whispered quietly in his mas-
ter's ear.
Jordison did not look up from his substantial break-
fast of eggs and bacon, but taking up the letters which
had been placed by his side, glanced carelessly at the
132


News From Valparaiso 133
envelopes. Lipp still stood behind his chair, as though
expecting some remark.
Jordison went on with his breakfast after selecting
one letter from the others, and placing it by the side of
his plate.
“Lord Overcliffe,” Lipp repeated hoarsely. Jordi-
son turned round sharply and looked at him. The
man's face was white and unwholesome in appearance.
There was a sullen look of fear in his eyes.
"It doesn't matter, Lipp,” Jordison said, “the fact
remains the same. It is an ugly business."
“We'll both swing for it," continued the servant in a
half-frightened tone.
"Possibly,” said Jordison, “but all men's lives are
equal. Lord Overcliffe is of no more importance in the
eyes of the law than one of the footmen.”
The man bent down till his ugly mouth was within an
inch of Jordison's ear.
“Yer a bloomin' fool,” he said familiarly. “The
death of a servant would be forgotten in a month. But
'im, that young lord-Lor' bless yer, they'll move heaven
and earth an' 'ell to find out who killed 'im. And
they've the brass to keep things a-rolling, and we'aven't
a dog's chance."
“I will take such chance as there is, Lipp,” Jordison
replied quietly, "and stay here. You can go if you like.
But your departure will be known, and you will be fol-
lowed and arrested on suspicion. Your past career will
probably come to light, and then- "
“And then wot?”


134
The Black Motor-Car
“Why, the fat will be in the fire, and you will frizzle
in it."
The man swore a horrible oath and gripped the back
of Jordison's chair with his fingers. The latter did not
look round at him, but his right hand stole to his pocket,
as though searching for his handkerchief.
“Take my word for it, Lipp,” he said quietly. “You
are safe enough here.”
“Wot of Jermy and Susanson ?” said the man.
“There'll be a thousand pound reward for this job, may
be five thousand pound, may be ten thousand pound.
'Ole 'Etherstone won't spare expense. D'yer think
'uman natur' 'll stand it?"
Jordison made no reply. But the thought ran
through his mind that he himself was equally dangerous
to Lipp. He kept his hand in his pocket.
“D'yer think I'm goin' to put my neck in their dirty
'ands, or yours either?” continued the ruffian, echoing
Jordison's own thoughts. “I ain't such a babe and
suckling.”
Jordison turned sharply round and caught the look
in his servant's eyes—a murderous, evil look. He also
saw a pair of thick muscular hands unpleasantly near
the back of his neck. The man drew back, as he turned,
and showed his yellow teeth.
“That'll do, Lipp,” Jordison said; “I'll see that
Jermy and Susanson keep their mouths shut. As for
me, I'm in the same boat as yourself. Now, will you
kindly go, as I want to read my letters and finish my
breakfast, and, mark you, Lipp, no tricks. You'll find


News From Valparaiso
135
me an unpleasant person to deal with if you cut up
rough. But if you stick to me I'll stick to you. Do
you understand ?”
“Yes, guvnor," the man replied; "but gi' me your
solemn oath.”
Jordison rose to his feet and held out his hand.
"Here's my hand on it, Lipp, and my word of hon-
our.”
The man took the proffered hand and peered into
Jordison's face. Then he grinned and the master knew
what was passing through the servant's mind, and his
face flushed. “Word of honour!” The phrase had
come to his lips from the past, when it had had a real
meaning. He felt that it required some readjustment
to suit the present circumstances.
“There's honour among thieves,” he said bitterly;
"you can trust me, Lipp.”
“Swelp me bob, I believes yer, guvnor. I'll stick to
yer.”
“Neither Jermy nor Susanson must leave the house
until I've decided how to keep their mouths shut. I
can rely on you to see to that.”
“Right, guvnor,” the man answered, as he slouched
out of the room.
When the door closed, Jordison hastily swallowed a
few more mouthfuls of breakfast, but his eyes never left
the letter which lay on the right of his plate, and every
now and then he fingered it expectantly. The envelope
was thick to the touch, and bore a monogram of B and
W, intertwined so gracefully as to be barely intelligible.


136
The Black Motor-Car
When he had finished his breakfast he tore open the
envelope, and, pulling out several sheets of paper, studied
them carefully.
The letter from Messrs. Briggs & Warlock ran as
follows:
“DEAR SIR: In accordance with your instructions
we sent out our special agent to Valparaiso to investi-
gate the supposed death of your son. We enclose you
his report, from which we regret to learn that Mr. Rich-
ard Behag is undoubtedly dead, and was in all probabil-
ity murdered by his friend, Mr. Arthur Sterious. Per-
haps you will wish to let the matter end at this point.
If you desire to trace the murderer of your son our ser-
vices are at your disposal. We have so far not gone
beyond your instructions. We are, dear sir,
“Yours respectfully,
“BRIGGS & WARLOCK.”
Enclosed was the following report, written on foreign
paper in a neat but commonplace hand:
“DEAR MR. WARLOCK:
“I sailed for Buenos Ayres on August 9th, in the
Caballo, and, crossing overland to Valparaiso, put up at
the Viajero Hotel. Within a few hours of my arrival I
called on the chief of police and asked for his cc-opera-
tion in the matter which had been placed in my hands.
He treated me with coolness, but when I carelessly
pulled out my wallet on pretence of searching for a letter,


News From Valparaiso
137
and thereby disclosed a considerable bundle of English
banknotes, his manner underwent a marked change,
and at the end of half an hour we became the best of
friends. This was a considerable but a necessary ex-
pense, and I did it as cheaply as possible. Senor Do-
noso is a very proud man. He promised to search up
the records of his office. I gathered this would take
time, as life is held cheap in these South American states,
and the records of sudden death are somewhat volumi-
nous. A week afterward I received a note from him
asking me to call at his private house, and there, with
the help of some excellent wine and cigars, he told me
all that he knew about Richard Behag.
“It appears that when Behag left his ship at Valpa-
raiso he obtained work as a clerk in the trading-house of
Hicks, Sterious & Company, who were one of the lead-
ing English firms in the city. He seems to have been a
young man of considerable intelligence and more than
average education, for by the end of the year I find that
he had been promoted to the responsible position of head
cashier. It also seems that he had formed a somewhat
undesirable friendship with young Arthur Sterious.
The latter was the eldest son of the principal partner in
the firm, but he had little or no aptitude for business,
and his name was mixed up with more than one dis-
reputable scandal in Valparaiso. From all that I could
gather he appears to have been a young man of athletic
build and pursuits, but of a peculiarly wild and vicious
character. I strongly suspect that this somewhat unde-
sirable friendship sprang from interested sources on


138
The Black Motor-Car
both sides. Behag saw a possible rise in his position
from his intimacy with the son of a member of the firm,
and Sterious, as I should guess from what subsequently
transpired, had even more sordid reasons for a friendship
with the cashier of his father's office. I may do either
or both of them an injustice, but except on one point,
their tastes appear to have been very dissimilar, and it
is at any rate curious that a steady, hard-working young
fellow like Behag should have chummed up with a man
whose character was not even up to the somewhat lax
standard of South American cities. They had, how-
ever, one pursuit in common, and it may possibly have
been this which linked them together. They were both
fond of the sea. Arthur Sterious owned two yachts, one
the Pajarito, a small five-tonner, and the other the
Pajaro, a fifty-tonner. Behag had been a sailor by pro-
fession, and was probably glad to be a passenger on the
bigger boat, or else potter about in the smaller one for
his own amusement. At any rate he seems to have
spent much of his spare time on the water.
“Then one Sunday morning Behag and Sterious went
out in the Pajarito, and since that day no one has ever
set eyes on them again.
“It was a fine warm day with a slight southerly
breeze. Both were experienced sailors, and it is ex-
tremely unlikely that they could have come to grief in
fair weather. But for all that the Pajarito was never
picked up. A week afterward her dinghey came ashore
twenty miles north of Valparaiso, bottom upward.
“The general opinion at the time was that for some


News From Valparaiso
139
reason or other the yacht had foundered, and that the
two men had put off in the dinghey and met with an acci-
dent in the open sea.
“But three months afterward it was rumoured that
the great firm of Hicks, Sterious & Company were in
difficulties. A month later they failed, and in the subse-
quent inquiries into the matter it came out that they had
been robbed of cash and negotiable securities to the
enormous amount of two hundred thousand pounds, and
that the fraud had been discovered twenty-four hours
after the disappearance of the head cashier."
Jordison rose to his feet with darkened face, half
crumpling the letter in his hand. He scarcely dared to
read another line. His mind flew back to the miserable
termination of his own honesty. Was it possible that
history had repeated itself, that the son was tainted with
the father's blood, that the criminal instinct had become
hereditary? If it were so, he thanked God that his son
was dead, and that the race had been stamped out.
He sat down again in the chair and buried his face in
his hands, and several moments elapsed before he had
the courage to resume the perusal of the letter. It con-
tinued as follows:
“The firm had kept the secret till they were forced
to disclose it, knowing well that any rumour of their loss
would involve them in ruin. But directly the truth was
known, it was clear to every one that the robbery had
been committed by Behag and Sterious, and that the two
men had endeavoured to make off with all the negoti-
able securities on the Pajarito.


140
The Black Motor-Car
“At first it seemed probable that the two men had
rowed ashore in the dinghey and made good their escape,
but a month after the failure of Hicks, Sterious & Com-
pany, the sea gave up its dead. The body of a man
was washed ashore forty miles north of Valparaiso,
and though scarcely a shred of flesh was left on the bones,
and the clothes were so worn as to scarcely afford the
means of identification, yet there was no doubt that it
was the body of Richard Behag, for a gold ring bearing
his monogram was still hanging on one of his fingers.
The skull was broken in, and the doctor who examined
the body gave it as his opinion that this was the result
of foul play. The mark was long and clearly defined,
as though it had been inflicted by some heavy instrument,
and it was clearly not caused by rocks or an accidental
collision of the body with anything in the sea.
“This discovery put an entirely new complexion on
affairs, and the police came to the reasonable conclusion
that Sterious had murdered Behag and made good his
escape with the lost securities.
"This theory was subsequently confirmed by a most
unexpected occurrence. One morning about six months
after the day Sterious and Behag had left Valparaiso,
Mr. Sterious, senior, received a bulky package from
England. It was registered and addressed in a hand-
writing that he did not recognise. On opening it he
found that it contained the whole of the missing securi-
ties, and that only the sum of two thousand pounds was
missing. The surprise was as welcome as it was in-
explicable. But Hicks, Sterious & Company have


News From 141
om
Valparaiso
raiso
regained nearly all the prestige they had lost, and they
are to-day one of the most respected firms in Valparaiso.
I may say that the package was posted in the southwest
district of London.
“For obvious reasons the firm made no endeavours to
trace the whereabouts of Arthur Sterious, and the police
here have their hands too full of murder cases to take
any trouble in the case of a young man who had no
friends to stimulate their efforts with hard cash. The
matter has been entirely dropped. Richard Behag is
dead and Arthur Sterious has disappeared, and there
the whole story seems to end. A careful perusal of the
evidence that I send you has led me to the following
simple conclusion:
“Behag and Sterious arranged to rob the bank and
escape on the Pajarito. They subsequently quarrelled,
as thieves will do, over the division of the spoil. Or,
perhaps Sterious, who seems to have been a thorough
scoundrel, thought it would be best to put his ac-
complice out of the way. At any rate, Arthur Sterious
killed Behag, threw him overboard, and tried to sail the
yacht himself. He probably found this too much for
him, got into difficulties, scuttled the boat and made off
for shore in the dinghey, which he subsequently left to
the mercy of the waves and winds. Eventually he man-
aged to make his way to Europe. Up to this point the
theory seems to present no difficulties, but the return of
the securities is absolutely inexplicable, and I have, as
yet, been unable to conceive why a man who had risked
so much to gain this end, and who had even killed his


142
The Black Motor-Car
accomplice in the course of his crime, should give back
the very thing for which he had committed both rob-
bery and murder.
"I may say in conclusion that I have made strenuous
efforts to secure a photograph of Arthur Sterious, and
have even committed a mild burglary with this object
in view. The young man has apparently only been
photographed once during the past seven years, and I :
have been unable to lay my hands on a single copy. As,
however, my instructions do not extend beyond the con-
firmation of Mr. Behag's death, I dare say your client
will be satisfied with what I have accomplished.
“Unless I receive a cable from you within two months
from date, I shall return home. In the mean time I will
endeavour to obtain such information about Mr. Sterious
as may lead to his ultimate capture. The case interests
me, and if any one else is sufficiently interested in the
detection of the murderer, and would pay my expenses
and a trifle for myself, I will guarantee to track the fel-
low down. At present my only clue is the fact that the
securities were posted from London, and that the fugi-
tive is a man of great height and breadth of shoulder,
with fair hair and grey eyes. As you may imagine, this
description will fit a large number of men,
"I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,
“EDWARD LAMPET.”
Jordison laid the letter down, and stared into the fire.
It warmed his face with a red glow, yet the tinge of
colour did not soften the hard cold misery in his eyes.


News From Valparaiso
143
His son was dead; little Dickie, whom he only remem-
bered as an innocent child, was dead-a thief mur-
dered by his accomplice.
"It is well,” he murmured to himself; “it is well
that he is dead.”
Yet that day he wired to Briggs & Warlock, and
before evening the message had been flashed across
the broad Atlantic to Edward Lampet. The cable was
short, but expressed all that was uppermost in the man's
mind:
“Sterious must be found. Spare no expense."
And all that night Jordison dreamed of a tall, broad-
shouldered young fellow with fair hair and grey eyes—a
bronzed young fellow versed in seacraft; and in one of
the dreams the stalwart frame hung up limp from a rope,
with strapped arms and a broken neck.


CHAPTER XIV
WHAT JERMY FOUND IN THE CREEK
Lipp was right in his conjectures. Two weeks after
the murder of young Lord Overcliffe a bill was posted
throughout the length and breadth of the country, pro-
claiming that Lord Heatherstone would give five thou-
sand pounds reward to any one who would give such
information as would lead to the detection of the mur-
derer. The keenest professional inquiry agents in
England gathered to that part of the world as vultures
to a carcass; the police moved on in their own silent,
methodical way; and the number of men who left their
legitimate business and assumed the role of amateur
detective was so considerable that it amounted to a
serious disorganisation of labour in the eastern counties.
It seemed, however, as though the murderers had left
no trace behind them. Lipp and Jordison feared only
one danger, and that was within their own house.
It came home to them at last. One morning Lipp,
half-dressed, saw a figure far down the road that led to
Gorehaven. At first he thought it was the postman,
then, noticing that it was moving away from the house,
he rushed downstairs, and found that Susanson was miss-
ing. Half an hour later Jordison was driving his motor
furiously along the road between the creeks, and Lipp
144


What Jermy Found in the Creek
145
was sitting in the tonneau behind with a pair of field-
glasses in his horny hands. Jermy, bound hand and
foot, was lying on his back in a locked room and con-
templating a patch of dull grey sky through a barred
window. He felt it to be an indignity, but he realised
the necessity of the precaution. Hour after hour he
spluttered horrible oaths through the gag that had been
fastened in his mouth, cursing Jordison, cursing Lipp,
and cursing, most of all, Susanson, the dirty little Jew,
who had forestalled him in his treachery. He pictured
to himself Susanson squandering his five thousand
pounds on diamond rings and fat little Jewesses with
black, greasy locks.
But the sense of fury and disappointment in Jermy's
mind soon gave way to an overwhelming terror. He
knew that he had not many hours to live. He realised
that his death would be a most desirable event in the
eyes of Lipp and Jordison, and that neither of them
was likely to have any scruples about taking his life.
If Susanson had reached the police station at Gore-
haven, Lipp and Jordison would have all their work
cut out to save themselves, and probably they would
not even return to the house. If, on the other hand,
they overtook Susanson, it was quite certain that the
poor little Jew would never have another chance of
betraying them. In which case Jermy would be the sole
possessor of the secret, and it would be almost necessary
for them to ensure his silence.
In either case Jermy realised that he must free him-
self from his bonds. He would either be left to starve
10


What Jermy Found in the Creek
147
He knew at once that it was a rat. The house was
literally overrun with them. His mind at once travelled
back to stories he had read-thrilling stories, where a
kindly rodent had nibbled through the bonds of the
hero. He glanced at the ropes. They looked unap-
petising, and he remembered that the hero had gen-
erally managed to rub them over with oil or fat. How-
ever, he lay still and hoped, for it is wonderful what
straws a drowning man will clutch at.
The rat moved round and round in search of some-
thing to eat. Once it came within a yard of Jermy's
head, and looked at him with beady eyes. Perhaps it
recognised a brother, for it was the animal of which
Jermy was the human type—the unclean, ravenous
thing that man stamps under foot and exterminates.
Jermy held his breath and wondered what it would do
next. He recalled unpleasant tales of men being eaten
alive by rats, and the sound of others in the wainscoting
by no means reassured him. The rat, however, did
not seem to care for a closer acquaintance with the
lump of silent flesh on the floor, and, turning round,
it ran up the bedclothes, and made its way up a bell-rope
to a long deal shelf, some eight feet above the ground.
The shelf was covered with tins, jars, and bottles, and
Jermy heard the clink of glass as the animal crept along
on its tour of inspection.
Then the rat did a thing which, if it had occurred in
the Middle Ages, would have earned it a place of honour
on the Jermy coat-of-arms. It discovered a large jar
half full of axle-grease, and in its efforts to taste this rich


148
The Black Motor-Car
dainty it sent the whole thing crashing to the ground.
The bottom half, with its jagged edge of thick earthen-
ware, rolled to Jermy's side.
In less than a quarter of an hour Jermy had sawn
through the rope that bound his wrists and arms. The
broken edge of the jar was as keen as a razor. Rolling
his body from side to side, he worked carefully and with
enormous difficulty. His hands streamed with blood,
but the loss of a finger would not have stopped him.
With hands and arms unbound the rest was easy.
He cut through all the ropes in five minutes, and, rising
to his feet, moved painfully across the room to a cup-
board, where he found a bottle of brandy. A deep
draught of the fiery liquid put fresh life into his aching
limbs and body. He went hurriedly to a dirty old cigar-
box full of papers and drew out a purse with twenty-five
sovereigns in it. Then he glanced at the window and
door, decided on the latter, and burst it open with the
heavy iron fender.
Then he made his way downstairs, crammed half a
loaf and a chunk of bacon into his pocket, and slipped
out into the road.
There was no one in sight, but he could not see far
in any direction. A white mist was rising from the
marshes, and the road disappeared from view three
hundred yards from the Red House. The sun had set,
but the sky was clear, and not yet dark. The full moon
showed large and yellow on the horizon through a bank
of sea-fog. Jermy stood a moment at the gate and
listened. The silence was complete and unbroken.


What Jermy Found in the Creek
149
He wondered what lay beyond the wall of mist; whether
Jordison and Lipp were tearing at full speed to the near-
est seaport, or whether Susanson had been captured.
The motor was so silent that it might flash upon him at
any moment out of the mist. Any other machine would
have given warning of its approach, and the low throb
of the engines would have been heard two miles away.
But this black monster moved like a ghost, and, till its
lights flashed suddenly out of the darkness, no man
could know how near it was to him.
Jermy had, however, to take his chance, and he set
off along the road to Gorehaven. It was the only route
open to him. In all directions he was cut off by wind-
ing creeks, full almost to the banks, for a spring tide was
running up from the sea, and it was nearly high water.
On either side of the road lay two tall banks; beyond
them were two strips of marsh-land, intersected by a
thousand tiny channels and gullies. At low tide these
were merely narrow ravines of mud, some more than
six feet in depth, and some shallow little gutters, taper-
ing off into a point, losing themselves in thick masses of
purple sea-lavender. But on this night they were full to
the brim with water.
Jermy decided that the open road was too perilous for
his purpose, so he climbed a steep bank on the left and
descended to the marsh-land on the other side of it. A
rude pathway ran at the foot. In some places it was
overgrown with glasswort, now turning to a mass of
crimson spears; in others it was a narrow stretch of mud
littered with corks, bottles, scraps of wood and sticks,


150
The Black Motor-Car
reeds, and a thousand and one pieces of débris that had
drifted up the creek with the tide. The bank was over
six feet high, and he was well screened from observation,
but the walking was difficult, and he moved slowly on
his journey. Every now and then he crawled cau-
tiously to the top of the bank, and, peering over the edge,
looked up and down the road.
A faint wind had risen from the southwest, and the
mist was gradually being scattered before it. In half
an hour's time he could see nearly a mile in every direc-
tion. At the end of an hour he had travelled little more
than three miles, but his limbs were still stiff from the
ropes that had cut into his flesh and muscles, and he was
beginning to be tired of his journey. He lay down on
the bank to rest, so that his eyes could scan the long
road beyond. The bank was wet with a heavy dew
and so steep that he stood almost upright as he leaned
against it. But it afforded a certain degree of comfort
after his weary tramp on the slippery and overgrown
path. He pulled out the bread and bacon and ate heart-
ily; then he filled a short clay pipe with black shag and
smoked till a sense of peace crept over him, and he saw
himself the owner of five thousand pounds. He had no
doubt that the stupid little Susanson was dead.
His happy meditations were interrupted by a yellow
glow in the mist, where the road vanished from sight.
A few seconds later three bright sparks glittered in the
distance like stars, and every second they increased in
size, till he could see the black car behind them. In less
than a minute they had flashed past him, and the fan of


What Jermy Found in the Creek 151
light receded farther and farther till it died away in the
mist beyond.
He sprang to his feet and continued his journey. He
had noted that there were only two people in the car.
It was quite evident that Susanson had been effectually
disposed of, for it was hardly likely that the two men
would have returned to the Red House if the little Jew
had made good his escape. The reward was in Jermy's
hands if he could only get off the marshland into the
open country.
At present he was so bound up among the creeks and
inlets on either side of the road that he could only escape
by hiding. He knew well enough that before long the
motor would come tearing back along the road, and
that the occupants would organise a systematic search
on either side of it.
He had nearly three miles to go before he could take
to the fields and strike across country to Gorehaven.
He had a few miles' start, but this, even with the time
that they would occupy in discovering his absence, was
not much for a man in a race with a motor that could
run one hundred miles in the hour.
The wind had cleared away the last remnant of the
fog, and the full moon shone clear over the country.
The marsh-land was richly veined with silver where the
light fell on the thousand creeks and gullies. It was a
singularly beautiful sight, but Jermy cursed it with a
foul mouth. He would have liked a fog so dense that
a man could not see his own feet. In ten minutes'
time he peeped over the edge of the bank, and again


152
The Black Motor-Car
saw three bright eyes in the distance and a blotch of
black on the long white road. He hastened on his way,
bending down a little in case they should catch some
glimpse of him from the passing car.
When at last he heard the swish of mud, he lay flat
on the ground among some tall marsh weeds. The car
passed and he rose to his feet. He knew well enough
the method of his pursuers. They would go to the end
of the marshes where the road joined the old Roman
causeway, and then they would beat backward on foot,
one on either side of the road. In the bright moonlight
it would scarcely be possible for him to escape their
notice. A pair of night-glasses would detect a moving
figure on that flat surface for miles around. He stopped
and hesitated, whether to go forward or return. If he
proceeded on his way he would be bound to meet them.
If he went back he would perhaps escape them for the
moment, but he was only running farther into a trap
and farther from safety. If he had been armed he
would have stood his ground with confidence. But
Jordison took good care that there should be only one
revolver at the Red House.
He finally decided to go back. He crept as near to
the bank as he could, and in a few minutes crossed it
and kept close to it on the other side. If his estimate
of his pursuers was correct, he would be hidden from
their view.
For a quarter of an hour he trudged homeward.
Every now and then he turned back and saw the distant
twinkle of the Bleriot lamps, motionless at the far end


154
The Black Motor-Car
just touch the bottom with his feet, and his head was
concealed by a bunch of weeds overhead. As he felt
himself sinking into the mud, he moved up a little toward
the road in the hope of finding a better footing. His feet
encountered something firm but elastic, like a pillow
stuffed with straw. He put one toe under it and gave
it a lift.
And then a horrible thing happened. He felt the
object rise from the bed of the gully, and a few seconds
later a white face rose from the water. He moved aside
the weeds and let the moon fall on it. It was ghastly,
distorted and streaming with black mud. A small crab
was hanging to one of the ears. It was the face of
Susanson.
Jermy forgot all caution in his terror and shrieked
aloud. And looking up at that moment he saw two
figures on the bank against the sky. He knew he was
discovered, for they had descended and came hurriedly
toward him. He struggled out of the gully and was on
his feet to meet them before they reached the spot. He
was a powerful man, and had no intention of dying like
a rat in a sewer. As he rose from the water the white
face of Susanson sank slowly back into its muddy rest-
ing-place.
The two men came to within five feet of him, and he
saw that Jordison held a revolver in his hand. They
stopped.
“What are you doing here, Jermy?" Jordison asked
in a quiet voice.
The man did not answer, but braced every muscle in



DYUNINA
The next second they were upon their victim.
Page 155





What Jermy Found in the Creek
155
his body. He had an idea that Jordison would not fire,
and that it would come to a physical combat.
“Well?” Jordison repeated.
“Yer bloomin' skunk!” Lipp growled, “yer thought
yer'd got the five thousand pounds, eh?” and he laughed
horribly.
Jordison raised his revolver, but Lipp laid a hand on
his arm and muttered in his ear. The next second they
were upon their victim, and the three rolled over on the
spongy ground. The contest was short but decisive.
Jermy drove his fists into Lipp's face with such force
that half of the latter's front teeth went down his throat,
and the next second he had bitten a piece out of Jordi-
son's ear. But he was overpowered, and Lipp began
to choke the life out of him, while Jordison held down
his legs and arms. With a stupendous effort he freed
one of his hands, and thrust it into his pocket. He had
a confused idea that there was a weapon there.
Quick as thought Jordison gripped his wrist, and as he
inserted his hand into the pocket, the fingers touched
the gold watch. He drew it out. Now, Jordison knew
that Jermy had no gold watch, and he gave a quick
glance of curiosity at it, before flinging it aside. In that
brief moment he caught sight of a name engraved on the
back of the case, and for the time being he forgot every-
thing else. He loosed Jermy, and slipping the watch
into his pocket, sprang to his feet.
“Let the man go, Lipp,” he cried. “I want to speak
to him. I can shoot him if he runs."
Lipp loosed the throat, but stood over the fellow like


156
The Black Motor-Car
a cat watching a mouse. Jermy did not move. He was
nearly black in the face, and struggling to get his breath.
"Where did you get this watch ?" asked Jordison. A
faint hope flickered in Jermy's breast. He noted the
look on his master's face as he asked the question. Here
was something that was required of him, and he knew
that no answer could be got out of a dead man. He
regained his wits—the wits of a professional scoundrel.
“I'll tell yer if ye'll take me 'ome," he replied, gasp-
ing for breath, “and swear you won't try this game
again."
"If you'll swear you won't peach on us, and tell me
what I want,” Jordison replied, “I'll give you my word
of honour as a gentleman that we will not harm you."
Jermy swore the oath in picturesque language, and
Jordison gave him the required assurance. Then Jor-
dison and Lipp grasped the man by the arms and led
him to the motor-car. In a few minutes they were in
the Red House.
Then over a substantial supper Jermy told his com-
rades how he had found the gold watch, but he said
nothing of the body in the mud. Jordison's face fell,
and there was an ugly look on it, but he remembered his
promise. He felt that he had been tricked, for the news
was quite valueless.
Yet that night in his bedroom he turned the watch
over and over in his hand, looking at it as though he
expected it to speak to him. But it only spoke the five
words engraved on the back of it:
“Arthur Sterious, from his mother.”
-
-
-


158
The Black Motor-Car
and the clasp of the hand, when they met and parted,
gave no sign of it. But some subtle and undefined
instinct told each of them the truth. If anything,
the knowledge made them over-careful and over-
reserved in each other's company. A stranger seeing
them together would have said that the relations be-
tween them were strained, and that only common
courtesy obliged them to have anything to do with each
other.
Arthur Holme fought a terrible battle with himself,
but he conquered. He was a strong man, and in his
rough way an honourable man. He knew that Lady
Agnes loved him, and he knew that she would probably
be as wax in his hands and that nothing would keep her
from him if he chose to storm the stronghold of her own
family pride and her father's displeasure. But he knew
also that to marry her would be to drag her from her high
estate. And he knew also that he would take her from
Lord Harry Quy, a man who was not only his friend,
but who would be a more suitable husband in every way
for this sensitive high-born girl. It has been said that
love conquers all. But though a strong man cannot
conquer love, he can put it down till it only cries out
faintly from his own soul. He can bind it and stifle it
and stamp on it, till its existence is as unknown to the
outer world as that of one of the prisoners in the old
dungeons of Venice.
Arthur Holme resolved to deal with his heart in his
own way. He knew the limitations of human nature,
and decided to break off all communication with the


Love's Bitterness
159
people at Heatherstone Hall. His only home was in
the fifteen-ton boat that lay in the Essex creeks. He
had no ties. There was no question of changing house
or shifting furniture. He had but to set sail, and move
into another part of the country. Save for Lady Agnes,
he did not care a straw for the ultra-civilisation of
Heatherstone Hall. His friend, Lord Harry Quy, was
up in town contributing a solid vote and golden silence
to the Conservative cause. Dress clothes and a foot-
man at his elbow did not appeal to Arthur Holme. He
was only really happy when he was hanging onto the
tiller with his feet pressed against the bulwarks, and the
frothy water was sweeping past him like a mill-race.
To break off all connection with the Heatherstones
would only mean the loss of Lady Agnes. And that
would be all for her good. And so the young man
resolved to fly from temptation. It was no act of weak-
ness, for a man must be superhuman to be long with the
woman he loves and be silent. It was rather, from a
man's point of view, an act of strength, a sacrifice for the
good of the woman.
Yet it is pitiful to learn how small a thing will shatter
all the resolutions of a brave man.
Arthur Holme sprung his news on the Heatherstone
household at dinner one night. He longed, so he said,
for a breath of the sea. He had work to do, work that
Lord Heatherstone did not approve of, but still work
that had to be done. His heart was with the toilers on
the deep, and he had resolved to take the Rover to Yar-
mouth, and, if possible, adjust a dispute between the


160
The Black Motor-Car
smack-owners and the men which threatened the liveli-
hood of thousands.
Lord Heatherstone received his news with genuine
regret. The other guests murmured various common-
places. One lady said that she had worked woollen
comforters for the North Sea fishermen. Lady Agnes
was silent, but a close observer might have noted the
tremor of her hand as she lifted a glass of water to her
lips. Arthur Holme did not dare to look at her face.
He felt the cruelty of this sudden and public announce-
ment. But he had resolved that there should be no
farewell scene between them, and that the girl he loved
should both receive the news of his departure in the pres-
ence of her family and be finally included in a formal
leave-taking.
It was therefore the irony of fate that brought these
two together after they had said good-bye in the presence
of a dozen other people. A few minutes before midnight
Arthur Holme and Lord Heatherstone sat alone in the
smoking-room. The guests had departed, and Lord
and Lady Gambridge, who were staying in the house,
had gone to bed. The noble Earl was expounding his
views on labour and capital, a subject introduced by
Holme's projected visit to the scene of a great labour
dispute. He quoted copiously from the speeches of
men long dead, and from the works of authors who were
deservedly forgotten. He was a man of accurate mem-
ory for unimportant details, and referred to fifty works
that Holme had never heard of. In one case, however,
his memory failed him. It was necessary to refer to the


Love's Bitterness
161
book. Holme protested that he would accept the quo-
tation without reference. But Lord Heatherstone
would have none of this.
It would be better, he said, to refer to the book. He
was not quite sure if he had the book, but he fancied it
was in the library. If it was in the house, it was in sec-
tion H, shelf 7.
Holme rose to his feet. "I will look for it, Lord
Heatherstone,” he said, perhaps a trifle wearily. It was
getting late, and he did not care a rap for the authority
in question. But he was anxious to humour a man from
whom he had received much kindness and whom he
might never see again.
As he made his way across the hall to the library he
was surprised to see the door open, and noticed that
there was a faint glow in the room, as though a single
light had been switched on at the far end of it. It was
an enormous apartment, nearly two hundred feet in
length. The book-shelves covered the walls to the
height of eight feet from the ground and ran out in
wings to the centre of the room. He entered quietly
and his footsteps made no sound on the thick pile carpet.
He knew that section H was half-way down the side
opposite the door, and making his way round one of the
projecting walls of books, he walked down the centre
aisle. As he did so, he heard a faint sound at the far end
of the room, the sound of a book being replaced in its
shelf.
He walked rapidly past section H and then paused,
for another sound came to his ears, the heartbreaking
II


Love's Bitterness
163
Holme did not answer, but coming close to her side
glanced at the title of the book she held in her hand.
It was Beatrice Harraden's “Ships That Pass in the
Night.” He wondered if this was a mere coincidence.
“Ships That Pass in the Night,'” he said slowly,
and then he laughed bitterly. She looked up at his face,
and the next moment she was sobbing in his arms.
It was all very sudden and very unmaidenly, but the
look on his face compelled it. For the moment her
reason had left her, and she had acted as her heart com-
manded. But a second later she broke away from his
clasp, and burying her face in her hands cried as though
her heart would break. He came to her side again.
“Agnes,” he said softly, “I implore you, dear Agnes
-oh, what have I done? Don't cry, dearest, don't cry
like that.”
Again he took her in his arms, and this time she did
not try to free herself from his embrace. But she looked
up at him with pleading eyes. He bent down his face
and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. His whole
nature cried out for the touch of her lips, but he was man
enough to subdue the passion that burned within him.
She looked into his face again, and he saw the glad
light of love shine through the tears in her eyes. But
still she did not speak.
“Agnes, dearest,” he said in a low voice, “I have
something to say to you, and I must say it quickly. I
would have left without saying it, but it must be said
now-after what has happened.”
She turned her eyes away from his face, and he drew


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her closer to him. He could feel her slim body tremble
in his arms.
“Agnes," he said simply, “I love you. It sounds
weak to say you are the only woman I have ever loved.
It is a stock phrase; the ridicule of cynics; in most cases
a lie, that no intelligent woman believes. But in my
case it is the real truth. Yet to-night I must leave you,
and never see you again. I will not drag you down to
my level. But for a moment of weakness, but for the
prank that chance has played us, I should have left with-
out telling you this. Now that I have told it, I must
go."
“Arthur,” she murmured, but so faintly that the
sound hardly came to his ears. It was the first word
she had spoken, and all the love of her heart was con-
centrated in the softly breathed name. An appeal, a
despairing cry, a prayer for him to stay-it was all these
blended together by love in a single word.
“Yes, I must leave you, Agnes,” he continued, “I
am no fit husband for you. It is not only that you are a
great lady, and I am a poor man. Were I but the son
of a farmer on your father's estate I could look you hon-
estly in the face and ask you to be my wife. But being
what I am, I could not drag you down to my level. I
see you for the last time, Agnes. I must go now.”.
“Yes, I think it is time that Mr. Arthur Holme went,"
said a stern, cold voice behind them.
They sprang apart and, turning round, confronted the
Earl of Heatherstone. His heavy, handsome face was
flushed with anger, but he controlled himself with the


Love's Bitterness
165
skill of the trained diplomat. Lady Agnes hid her crim-
son face in her hands. Arthur Holme clenched his
right fist.
“Mr. Arthur Holme is going, Lord Heatherstone,”
he said. "How long have you been here?”
He snapped the last half dozen words out so savagely
that Lord Heatherstone shrank back a pace. But he
recovered his composure in a moment.
“Agnes,” he said quietly, “go up to your bedroom at
once. Mr. Holme, I will have a word with you before
you go.”
Lady Agnes went up to her infuriated father and
kissed him meekly on the cheek. “Good-night," she
said in a low voice. He did not answer, but turned his
back on her. She held out her hand timidly to Arthur
Holme.
“Good-bye,” she said in a whisper.
Holme looked at her father, and the devil rose in his
heart. He stepped forward to clasp her in his arms and
kiss her passionately on the lips. But his finer nature
prevailed. He stopped suddenly and held out his
hand.
“Good-bye,” he said hoarsely, “and God bless you."
She took his hand, looked for a moment into his eyes,
and fled. He turned to the great Earl of Heatherstone.
"Well, my lord,” he said sharply, “what have you to
say for yourself?” It was characteristic of the man that
he assumed the attitude of a judge at a time when his
proper place was in the dock.
“It is for you to speak, Mr. Holme,” Lord Heather-


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stone replied; "but let us return to the smoking-room.
It is cold in here.”
The two men went back to the smoking-room. Lord
Heatherstone flung himself in an easy-chair by the fire,
Holme remained standing. For a while neither of them
spoke.
“Well, sir,” said Lord Heatherstone, after a pause.
“As you have been listening, my lord, I think you
know everything. It is possibly clear to you that I love
your daughter. It is equally clear, if you heard rightly,
that I shall not see her again.”
"You damned scoundrel!” cried Lord Heatherstone,
rising to his feet, “what right have you to speak of love
to my daughter? Who are you, you damned adven-
turer? Don't you know your place, confound you? Do
you think that because we "
“That'll do, Lord Heatherstone,” the young man
replied; “I know my place quite well. And it is be-
cause I know it that I have resolved never to enter this
house again. I will wish you good-bye, my lord.”
“Stay, Mr. Holme; you cannot go yet. How long
has this been going on?”
“It commenced five minutes before you came into
the room. It ended when your daughter left it. But I
shall answer no more questions. I wish you good-
night,” and he turned to go.
Lord Heatherstone laughed.
“When I was your age,” he said in an insolent tone,
"I had more pluck. I would not have broken the heart
of the woman I loved for all the social distinctions in the


Love's Bitterness
167
-
world. Bah! I thought there was more fight in you.
I do not think Agnes has lost much."
Arthur Holme turned sharply round, and his face
paled for all the bronze that the sea and winds had given
it.
“There's plenty of fight in me, Lord Heatherstone,”
he replied in a strained voice. “And if you rouse it,
you will bring the devil into your household. I am
man enough to retire without wrecking your home.
Even if I thought that your own case had made you
lenient to us both, even if I thought that your second
marriage with a woman whom you dragged up from
obscurity had made you less punctilious about the alli-
ances of your house, I would not offer myself as a suitor
for your daughter's hand.”
“You have no money,” said Lord Heatherstone. “It
would, of course, be an impossible match. We do not
even know who you are.”
"I know this,” Holme replied gravely, “that I am no
fit husband for any woman. But, mark you, Lord
Heatherstone, if you rouse the devil in me, I may cast
all scruples to the winds. I am a strong man, and I care
little for your lands and your titles. If I did resolve to
follow my desires, Lord Heatherstone, I would, indeed,
'leave your house unto you desolate.'”
Lord Heatherstone sank into a chair and buried his
face in his hands. Arthur Holme had struck hard, and
struck deep. It was but a month since Lord Overcliffe
had died.
Holme was disgusted with the brutality of his own


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words. He stepped over to Lord Heatherstone and laid
one hand on his shoulder.
“I am sorry, Lord Heatherstone," he said quietly;
“I did not mean to hurt you. You would forgive me
much if you knew what this brief glimpse of love has
been to me. Good-night and-good-bye.”


CHAPTER XVI
THE TRAP
Holme made his way through the garden and crossed
the park to the creek, where the Rover lay at her anchor-
age. It was a frosty night, and a full moon shone
brightly in a cloudless sky. A shimmer of silver lay on
the grass, and the trees sparkled with the frozen dew.
But his mind was not attuned to any beauties in the
landscape. He knew that he had acted like a weak
fool, and even the fact that he was leaving Heatherstone
Hall behind him for ever did not atone for the brief out-
burst of passion which was bound to bring sorrow into
more than one life. He knew that he would always
look back to those five minutes of love as a fair spot to
be remembered, as a shadow of a great tree in a thirsty
land. Yet the sparkling well he had drunk from was
not altogether sweet, and the memory of how his thirst
had been quenched would always be vitiated by the
bitter taste that the draught had left in his mouth. He
reached the edge of the plantation, and, brushing through
the wet undergrowth, sent showers of frost flakes from
the bare branches of the trees. Then he climbed over
the wall and saw the dark outline of his boat on the sil-
very strip of water.
169


170
The Black Motor-Car
He stood on the bank opposite to her and hailed the
man on board. After half a dozen calls James Outen
came to the deck of the cutter. He quickly unfastened
the painter and sculled to the bank. Then he waded
ashore through the mud and brought his master a heavy
pair of seaman's boots. Holme put them over his dress
trousers and made his way down the bank through a
foot of slime. The tide was running out.
“Asleep, Outen ?” he queried, as they pushed the
boat off.
"I was just dozing, sir. I'll be glad to get to my
bunk.”
"I'm afraid you won't get there just yet,” Holme said
dryly. “We leave here on this tide, and look sharp.
We must get under weigh in ten minutes, or we shan't
get over the East Wick salterns. Give me one of the
sculls."
The two men bent to their work with a will. But
Outen had let the dinghey run down fifty yards with the
stream, and every inch of this had to be fought against a
slopping tide. More than half of the ten minutes had
gone when they climbed up on the deck. Outen looked
at his watch.
"I doubt if we do it, sir,” he said. “The tide has
been running out for three hours."
“Confound you,” said Holme, "get to work. We
must get as far as we can.” He had made up his mind
that he would be out of sight of Heatherstone Hall when
the day broke. He did not wish to set eyes on it again.
The two men set to work with a will. In less than


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The Black Motor-Car
while they ran before the wind, began to hiss and splash
and bubble at the bows. Holme looked up critically at
the canvas, and gave a few orders to Outen, who began
to tighten sheets and halliards. Holme liked his sails to
set well, even when there was no one to see them. The
moon shone on the rounded curves, and they looked like
the firm plumage of a white gull.
They moved a trifle more slowly now, and Holme's
eyes watched the creek as a tight-rope walker watches
his rope. The water was certainly running out very
fast, and the channel was not more than thirty feet
across in places. Here and there a black saltern showed
its ugly little hump above the water and split the channel
into two narrow rivers. Three miles away the mound,
on which the Red House stood, showed up against the flat
land around it. Holme looked at his watch.
“We shan't do it, Outen,” he said. “We touched
just now, and though it's deeper before we get to the Red
House, it's a lot shallower at East Wick. Just go for’ard
and stand by the anchor.”
Outen went into the bows and kept a sharp lookout
at the water ahead. When they were within a mile of
the Red House the wind began to die away and more
than once the sails flapped. However, they drifted
down with the stream, and there was just enough breeze
to steer by. Then suddenly Outen gave a cry of sur-
prise.
"Put her round, sir,” he yelled; “put her round
quick."
Holme jammed down the helm, but the boat refused


The Trap
173
to come about against the tide. Outen tumbled the
anchor overboard and the chain went rattling over the
bow. The sails flapped idly, but the tide swung the
boat round. Outen checked the cable and the boat
brought up with a jerk. At the same moment the stern
crashed into something and the whole vessel quivered
with the shock. Holme looked over the stern, but could
distinguish nothing in the shadow beneath the keel.
“What is it?” he cried out angrily.
For answer Outen pointed to the shore on either side.
Holme saw a long thin line run from the bank, disappear
in the water, reappear on the other side of the creek, and
continue its course to the opposite bank. It was just
such an obstacle as selfish landowners on the Thames
put across the backwaters which run through their terri-
tory—a stout chain hung from shore to shore. Holme
uttered a savage oath and scowled at the Red House,
which lay one hundred and fifty yards from them.
“I'll teach the scoundrel that the creeks don't belong
to him," he muttered. “Can't we break clear of the
cursed thing, Outen? We shall smash our rudder.”
“We can pull in a bit of cable, sir, but not much. The
bottom of this creek doesn't hold very well, and the tide's
running like a mill-race. We want as much chain as
possible.”
“Well, let's pull her clear of this cursed chain. Then
we'll go ashore and talk to Mr. Jordison.” Holme had
very good reasons for avoiding the man, but he forgot
them in the heat of his anger. He would teach this up-
start that to buy the land on either side of the creek con-


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The Black Motor-Car
ferred no right to the waters that flowed between the
banks. He did not realise that the meeting was exactly
the object Jordison had in view.
They hauled in some of the anchor chain, stowed sail,
and rowed ashore in the dinghey. It was now past two
o'clock in the morning, and there was no light to be seen
in any part of the Red House. The two men waded up
to the bank through the mud, and, making their way to
the door, kicked on it with their heavy boots. The noise
reverberated through the house, but no one stirred with-
in. Holme stepped back a few paces and looked at the
cracked walls and empty window-frames. He had, of
course, heard of the explosion, but he knew that Jordi-
son had not left the neighbourhood.
They walked round to the other side of the house and
thundered at the back door. For five minutes they
kicked at the woodwork, until they had knocked in the
two bottom panels. Then suddenly a streak of yellow
light came from behind them and threw their shadows
on the wall of the house. They turned round and saw
that it came from an open door in the stables, and that
the dark figure of a man was silhouetted against it. They
left the house and walked toward him.
As they drew near he took the lantern from the table
behind him and let it hang from his hand, so that the
light fell full on their faces, and his own was in darkness.
“Who are you?” he cried, “and what the devil do you
mean by making a disturbance at this time of night?”
Holme recognised the voice, but he would certainly
have been surprised if he could have seen the face, which


The Trap
175
was lit with a smile of triumph, and betrayed none of the
annoyance that the words implied.
"I am Arthur Holme," was the sharp reply, “and my
boat is caught up on some cursed obstacle that you have
put across the creek. You have got to remove it at
once.”
“The creek is mine. The land on either side is mine.”
“You are evidently a stranger to the customs of these
parts. Every man has a right of waterway up the
creeks. You must take it down at once. Of what use
is it to you?”
"I am making a ferry from one bank to the other,"
Jordison replied, chuckling to himself at the fertility of
his own imagination. “I want to get carts across to
carry reeds from the marshes.”
“You are acting against the law, Mr. Jordison, and
the chain must come down."
“I will risk the law, but I have no wish to hinder your
boat. I will have the chain lowered.”
He stepped inside the door and closed it behind him.
Holme and Outen waited outside till he reappeared with
Lipp and Jermy.
“My two servants will go down with your man,” said
Jordison, "and loose the chain. In the mean time I
want a word with you, Mr. Holme. If you will come
inside the harness-room, and excuse my rough hospi-
tality, I will give you a glass of good whisky and a
really passable cigar.”
"I have no wish to talk to you,” Holme replied. “I
want to get under weigh at once."


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The Black Motor-Car
“You have lost the tide now. You cannot clear East
Wick salterns. You will have to wait at least five hours.
I have something important to say to you, and if you
refuse to come in with me, well, you certainly won't get
past the chain unless you bring some more men to help
you."
Holme shrugged his shoulders. A few minutes' con-
versation was of no importance one way or the other.
He particularly wished to make the sea by daybreak.
"I'll come,” he said abruptly, and went inside with
Jordison.
The other three men disappeared round the corner
of the house. Jordison poured out two glasses of
whisky, and, offering a cigar to his guest, lit one him-
self.
“Now, then, Mr. Holme,” he said, looking the young
man straight in the face, “I am going to ask you a ques-
tion. I asked it you before, and you departed somewhat
unceremoniously without answering it. This time it
will take a more precise form. Tell me what you know
of the death of Richard Behag."
Holme was silent. He had expected this question
and had already resolved to give no answer. But he did
not expect what was to follow.
“Tell me what you know of the death of Richard
Behag,” Jordison repeated slowly, “and tell me whether
you know anything of Arthur Sterious, who is said to
have killed him.”
Holme half rose from his chair, and his face grew
white. But he recovered himself.


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Jordison took the revolver from his pocket, and, look-
ing at it, glanced at Holme and smiled.
“Do you intend to shoot me?" the young man asked.
. “Not I. Dead men cannot speak, and I want you to
speak. But you do not leave here until you tell me what
I want to know."
“I can tell you nothing."
Jordison went to the door, and taking a whistle from
his pocket blew three shrill calls upon it. A few seconds
later Holme heard cries and the splashing of water.
Then there was a wild shriek for help and then silence.
He sprang at Jordison, who blocked up the doorway, but .
the latter moved aside. Holme tripped and came with
a crash to the ground. The next moment the two were
locked in each other's arms. In a minute Lipp and
Jermy came running up, and the three soon overpowered
Holme. He was gagged, bound hand and foot, and car-
ried to the Red House. Lipp was set to watch by him
till the morning.
“I think you will speak, Mr. Holme, before I have
done with you,” said Jordison as he left the room.



He was gagged, bound hand and foot, and carried to the Red House.
Page 178





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the great leaders of men that came to stay under its roof.
Her husband, kind and sympathetic, came to see her
three times a day. The hours were marked out and ob-
served with strict regularity. He came to the minute,
stayed exactly half an hour, and departed. Her step-
daughter came in and out at all times. Her presence
was a ray of sunshine, but the sick woman was not sorry
to be left to her own darkness. The fair and beautiful
girl served only to remind her of what she herself had
been. Her son, the only thing she loved on earth, was
dead.
Lady Heatherstone was a comparatively healthy wo-
man, and the doctor promised her long years of life. But
two years previously a terrible and loathsome disease
had attacked her, and left such frightful ravages on her
face that she would not even let her husband look upon
it. For two years no living soul had seen beneath the
black silk hood that veiled it from the crown of her hair
to her shoulders. Lady Heatherstone never unveiled,
save when she was alone. It was noticeable that there
was only one looking-glass in any of the three rooms,
and that this was covered with a thick piece of black
velvet.
In this manner she had resolved to live until death
released her. It was a living death, but she had not the
strength to face the world again. In years gone by she
had been the most beautiful woman in the county. Now
the veriest scarecrow among women could thank God
that she had not the face of the great Countess of Heath-
erstone.


The Countess of Heatherstone 181
On this particular evening, Lady Agnes Cliffe had
looked in to chat with her stepmother for a few minutes
before going to bed. The Countess sat at a large rose-
wood and ormolu table, arranging a pile of russia and
morocco leather cases in front of her. In one hand she
held a pencil, and, opening one case after another, she
ticked off the various items on a piece of paper.
Lady Agnes sat a couple of yards away, and watched
her stepmother listlessly. Her face was very white and
tired. All the brightness seemed to have died out of it.
Life had begun to deal hardly with this young girl, who
had hitherto known so little of sorrow. The first blow
fell when Lord Overcliffe was killed; the second when
Arthur Holme said “Good-bye” to her forever; the third,
a thousand times more terrible, more certain and more
irrevocable, when she heard that his yacht had been
found drifting off the Essex coast, and that the dead
body of Outen had been picked up near the mouth of
the Long Haven creek.
It was quite clear to her that Holme was dead, though
the inquest on Outen gave no clue to the mystery of the
death of either man. There was no doubt that the sai-
lor had been drowned, and the coroner's jury expressed
no further opinion on the matter. The Rover had cer-
tainly not foundered, and it seemed inexplicable that her
two occupants, both experienced sailors, should have
come to grief in fair weather. The mystery was inten-
sified by the fact that the boat was found drifting with
all her sails stowed and her anchor on board.
Lady Agnes had read every word of the evidence, and,


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though it told her nothing, it seemed to leave no room
for any hope. Undoubtedly Arthur Holme was dead,
and one day the sea would give up the body to the
shore.
The Countess of Heatherstone knew her stepdaugh-
ter's story, and was not ill-pleased with the termination
of so unpromising a love-affair. She cared very little
for the girl's future happiness, but the traditions of the
great Heatherstone family had been ground into her
soul, and she had no sympathy with a mésalliance. She
was not altogether sorry that a cloud was blotting out
some of the sunshine of a fair young life. The clouds
were very dark above her own head, and the thought of
another woman's happiness was gall to her.
This evening, however, she had no thought for any-
thing but the blue, crimson, and green leather cases in
front of her. They were of all shapes and sizes, but
each one was stamped with the Heatherstone crest and
coronet. A few, more faded than the others, and relics
of a more ostentatious period, were impressed with the
full armorial bearings of the family-coat-of-arms, crest,
coronet, supporters, and motto.
Every one of these cases, and there were one hundred
and fifteen in all, contained jewels. Specimens of nearly
every gem of the earth were hidden in these little leather
shrines. Rings, brooches, bracelets, and tiaras flashed
one by one into view as the Countess raised the covers
and checked the contents on her piece of paper. She
looked at each one lovingly, though the sight of them
was not untinged with sorrow. As wife of the Earl of


The Countess of Heatherstone 183
Heatherstone she had dazzled many a jealous eye with
their splendour, and moved through many a stately room
encrusted with their rainbow fire. Now they were for
her eyes alone. She idly remembered how one news-
paper in the days of her beauty had spoken of her as
“Venus masquerading as the Queen of Sheba.”
Lady Agnes watched her stepmother in silence. Like
most women she loved jewels, but her thoughts were far
away, and she scarcely noticed the flash of emeralds,
diamonds, and rubies, as case after case was opened and
closed. Once, however, her attention was forced by
some remark of her stepmother's about the famous pearl
necklace. Then for a moment she grasped the whole
scene and shuddered. She saw nothing of the lustrous
beauty of the pearls, but only the grotesque horror of the
masked face glaring at the splendid ornament which
would probably rest in its case till the owner was dead.
At last the Countess finished her task, and, folding up
the piece of paper, she went to an ecritoire, and placed it
in one of the drawers.
“They're all here, Agnes,” she said. “They go
to the bank to-morrow. Your father insists upon
it.”
“He is probably right,” Lady Agnes replied. "After
what has happened it would be unsafe to leave them
here.”
“Yes, it would certainly be unsafe. They will come
again for them.”
“Of course it is better to put them in the bank,” said
Lady Agnes quietly; "they are determined to have


The Countess of Heatherstone 185
stepmother's side, took her hand. “Good-night," she
said tenderly; "and please let me take that revolver.
I am so afraid.”
“Tush, child,” the Countess answered. “I can take
care of myself, and if I get killed that does not matter to
any one. It certainly does not matter to me.”
Lady Agnes stooped down and kissed her stepmother's
hand. This was the nearest approach to an embrace
that was ever offered to Lady Heatherstone. The black
hood hung like a barrier against any more affectionate
demonstration.
Lady Heatherstone patted the girl's cheek, and then
putting it between her two hands, looked earnestly at
the beautiful face.
“Good-night, Agnes,” she said. "We all of us have
our troubles. Some of us deserve them, and some do
not.”
. Lady Agnes burst into tears and went hurriedly from
the room. Lady Heatherstone was left to her own re-
flections. She replaced the revolver in the drawer and
rang the bell. In a few seconds her maid entered. She
slept and lived a few yards down the corridor. The bell
rang in her room and was placed over her bed.
“You may go to bed, Brown,” Lady Heatherstone
said. "I will undress myself to-night.”
The maid disappeared. It was after eleven o'clock,
and she was glad to be released from her duties.
Lady Heatherstone went over to the table, which was
covered with the jewel-cases. A massive steel door
stood wide open in the wall, and she glanced at it. Then,


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The Black Motor-Car
taking up the largest case, the one that contained the
famous emerald tiara, she carried it across the room and
placed it in a corner of the safe. Then suddenly an idea
seemed to strike her. She took the case out again and,
returning to the table, drew out the tiara from its velvet
nest and placed it on her head. It looked grotesque
and horrible on the top of the black hood.
Then she began to open the cases one by one and
transferred their contents to her own person. When she
had finished she glittered like a column of rainbow-col-
oured fire. Every finger was crammed with rings, her
arms were circled almost to the elbows with bracelets,
every available inch of her dress was encrusted with
stars and crescents and suns of flaming gems. Round
her throat-round the neck of the hood—were a dozen
necklaces, drooping down in sparkling curves of light.
She had to be satisfied with a single tiara. It glowed on
her head like sunlight through the greenery of a great
forest in early spring.
She crossed over to the square of black velvet on the
wall, and seizing it in one hand drew it back with a
crash and rattle of brazen rings. A cluster of light
shone above her head, and she saw herself full length in
the glass. From head to foot she sparkled like a galaxy
of white and coloured stars. With every movement of
her body ripples of fire ran over her, and every point of
flame burst out in glittering splendour. The head alone,
which should have been the crowning glory of the whole
magnificent spectacle, was a mere patch of inky dark-
ness.


The Countess of Heatherstone 187
For ten minutes she stood before the glass, swaying
from side to side, moving backward and forward, now
bowing low to the ground, now leaning back with hands
thrown over her head. Posing in every attitude, but
always moving and never still, and with points of flame
continuously flashing and rippling over her from head
to foot.
Then she suddenly stopped, laughed bitterly, and
drew the curtain back with a crash.' The play was over.
One by one she replaced the jewels in their cases,
and carefully deposited each case in the safe. Then she
turned the two keys in the lock, threw one into a china
vase on the mantelpiece and placed the other in her
pocket. Then she took the revolver from the drawer of
the ecritoire, and, turning out the lights, made her way
to her bedroom.


190
The Black Motor-Car
She crossed the room on tiptoe and looked through the
keyhole of the door that led into her boudoir. The
small dimensions of the aperture limited her range of
vision, and she could see nothing save that there was a
light in the room. The noise had ceased. She won-
dered if the door was locked. She turned the handle
very softly and slowly and pulled it toward her. The
door opened half an inch, and she let the handle turn
quietly back into its original place. She smiled at the
artlessness of the thief within. An accomplished bur-
glar would surely have locked all the doors before he
commenced his work.
She looked through the narrow slit and saw a man
kneeling before the safe. A small lantern threw a circle
of light a foot in diameter on the steel door. He was
holding something in his hand close to the lock. It
looked like a small penholder, with two thin tubes run-
ning from it into the darkness behind him.
Then she saw him light a match and apply it to the
point of the penholder. A thin white spear of flame
shot out and there was a noise like the hiss of an angry
serpent. The kneeling form looked like a shadow
picture against the blinding light.
Then suddenly the man turned round, and catching
hold of the lantern, threw its rays on the door. The
Countess had made no sound, but the thief hears a thou-
sand noises that have no real existence, and his keen eye
can detect the slightest change or movement in his sur-
roundings.
Jordison saw that the door was open. The crack was


Face to Face
191
so small that it might have passed unnoticed, but to him
it was as plain as a yawning chasm. He knew that the
door had been shut, and he thought that he had locked
it. He extinguished the oxyhydrogen jet, rose to his
feet, and walked quickly across the room.
But before he could reach the door it was Aung wide
open, the electric light was switched on, and he was con-
fronted by the Countess of Heatherstone.
He would have sprung at an ordinary woman and
choked her into silence before she could scream. But
he stepped back in horror at the apparition that stood
before him. The black velvet robe with the two eyes
glittering from the black hood on the face produced so
weird an effect that for a moment he thought he was in
the presence of some visitor from the spiritual world.
He recovered himself in a few seconds. He had heard
the story of the Countess of Heatherstone, and knew
who stood before him. But he recovered himself too
late. He was now too far from the woman to reach her
before she could scream and arouse the household. And
there was something in store for him that he had not
counted on. Before he could say a word or move a step
he was covered by a revolver. He saw from the way it
was handled that it was no toy, but a dangerous weapon
in the grasp of one who knew how to use it. Quick as
thought his own hand went to his pocket, but his revol-
ver was entangled in a piece of torn lining. The two
eyes watched him from their peep-holes, and before he
could free his weapon the Countess spoke.
“Keep your hand where it is,” she said quietly. “If


192
The Black Motor-Car
you move it an inch, I shall fire. I am a good shot-for
a woman."
Jordison did not move. He glared like a wild beast
caught in a trap. His fierce, haggard face was distorted
with rage and fear. The mere fact that he was at the
mercy of a woman accentuated the indignity of his
position.
“Take out your weapon by the barrel,” continued the
Countess, “and lay it on the table beside you. If I see
that your fingers are on the butt I will shoot you without
another word.”
Jordison ground his teeth in fury, but he obeyed.
For one moment he thought of risking everything on a
chance shot. But the odds were against him, and,
whatever happened, he would rouse the household. He
resolved to bide his time.
“Now walk back to the wall. Quick!" He obeyed.
The Countess stepped forward, picked up his revolver,
and placed it in her pocket. Then she sat down in a
chair, ten feet from where he stood. Jordison glanced
at the open window. His only hope lay in Lipp, who
watched below. If the man could creep quietly up the
ladder and shoot this termagant of a woman, all might
yet be well. The motor waited on the road by the creek,
and if they could only regain it, pursuit would be useless.
But the Countess saw his glance, and with a woman's
wit defined his thoughts. She crossed to the window,
closed and bolted it, let down the blind, and drew the
curtains. Yet never for a moment did she take her eyes
off Jordison.


Face to Face
193
“Now,” she said, when she had completed her task,
“will you explain exactly what you want, and who you
are? I think I have seen your face somewhere before."
The two eyes glittering through the holes in the mask
seemed to be searching every feature of his face, and he
shrank from her gaze.
He knew that it was very unlikely that they had ever
met before, and certainly not since he had been in Essex.
At any rate she could not identify him as William Jordi-
son, of the Red House. But in spite of this assurance
he felt ill at ease. There was something in her look that
cowed his fierce spirit. He felt that he was at a disad-
vantage, for he could not see her face, or read what was
passing in her mind. He had no answer to give to her
questions. But he had to speak, if only to gain time.
“You know well enough what I want,” he replied
sullenly, after a pause, “and it doesn't matter to you
who I am.” She continued to gaze at him. Then she
laughed.
“No," she said slowly. “I don't care what your
name is. I think I have seen you before. It is enough
for me that you are a thief and—a murderer.” She
brought the last word out with so ominous an emphasis
that Jordison's blood ran cold. He knew well enough
now what he had to expect, and that a lioness robbed of
her cubs would be more merciful than the woman who
stood before him.
"A murderer,” she repeated in a cold, even voice,
“the murderer of my son, of my only child. He was all
that I had in the world. For two years I have endured
13


Face to Face
195
hand you over to the hangman, but I will spare you the
horrors of our penal system, the black cap, the open
grave, the whine of the chaplain, the burial-service read
over a living man. I will be merciful, and shoot you
myself. Perhaps I shall rest when I have avenged my
son. Each night he cries out to me from his grave.”
He was silent. His mind harked back to the days of
the Inquisition, when masked figures, like the one before
him, sat in judgment and consigned heretics to the tor-
ture of fire and steel. The very thought of death was
agony to him. Life had no pleasure for him, but there
was more than one duty to be done before he died. By
a strange irony of fate the avenger was to become the
victim of a vengeance as stern and unsparing as his own.
He moved his right hand from behind his back, and
looked at the ring upon his forefinger—that flat opal
given him by Marie de la Mothe, once a pledge of love,
now the symbol of undying hatred. He set his teeth at
the sight of it, and resolved to have a last fling for life.
He pressed it to his lips, in no spirit of tenderness, but
as a knight of old might have kissed his sword before
he went into battle. It was a kiss that tasted of
blood.
The Countess of Heatherstone watched the move-
ment, but it inspired her with no pity for her victim. If
this man had some one who loved him, some wife, some
sweetheart who had given him the ring, so much the bet-
ter. The woman should suffer as she herself had suf-
fered.
Then, as he moved his hand from his lips, she caught


196
The Black Motor-Car
sight of the ring. With her mind full of dark passion
she had not noticed it before. It was not a very noticea-
ble thing, for the opal had worn dull and lustreless. But
now her woman's curiosity prompted her to glance at
the token which seemed so precious to a man about to
die. She saw it, and stepping forward a pace, saw it
still more clearly.
Then she gave a cry of horror, and the revolver
dropped to her side. Jordison saw his chance and
sprang at her, but she was too quick, and he recoiled
from the muzzle of her weapon. He did not notice how
it trembled in her hand.
“That ring,” she said slowly, trying to speak in a calm
voice, “where did you get it? Who are you? Where
did you get that ring?—the opal ring I mean," and she
looked hard at his face, trying to read from it another
face that always looked out on her from the past. But
time and penal servitude and misery and despair and
the wrecking of mind and soul can do much to change
the features of a man. Jordison was silent. He saw no
reasons for gratifying a woman's curiosity at a moment
like this. He was still thinking how he could get the
better of his adversary.
“You will not speak,” she replied. “Then I will
speak for you. Your name is John Porteous, and that
ring was given you by Marie de la Mothe.”
The words fell on Jordison's ear like a clap of thunder.
He moved forward and stared at the speaker. But the
black mask hid everything he wished to see from his
view. For more than a minute he stood thus, as though


Face to Face
197
turned to stone. The revolver was still pointed at his
heart.
“Are you not John Porteous ?" she continued; "an-
swer me. You are very near to death. Tell me the
truth.”
"I was John Porteous," he replied mechanically,
“and who are you?”
“I am the Countess of Heatherstone,” she said, “but
because you are John Porteous, and because you kissed
that ring on your finger, I cannot kill you. Go!” And
she pointed to the window. He did not move.
"Go!” she cried, “or I may repent-I hear the voice
of my son crying out to me.” She lowered the revolver
and he moved toward the window, passing close to her.
He knew well enough now who she was, and why the
face of the young Lord Overcliffe had recalled some one
in his past life.
Then suddenly the devil took possession of his heart,
and he did the foulest deed of his life. He turned sud-
denly upon her, pinioned her arms to her side, took both
the weapons from her, and flung her from him, so that
she staggered back against the wall.
For a moment he looked at her, then he sprang at her
throat. She screamed horribly.
“You are Marie de la Mothe,” he cried, “and I have
sworn to kill you. I am not so merciful as you.” Then
his madness went from him as suddenly as it came to
him. He released his grip and looked at her with a
sneer.
“No,” he said, “I cannot kill you now, for you have


198
The Black Motor-Car
given me my life. God has punished you. I am glad
your son is dead. I am glad that— " He seized her
hood and tore it from her face.
Then he stepped back and broke into peals of laugh-
ter. She tried to hide her awful features in her hands,
but he tore them away and still laughed. She moaned
like a dying animal. There were voices and sounds in
the passage. Jordison locked the door leading into the
other room, and returned to her again, and once again
tore her hands from her face.
“The beautiful Marie de la Mothe,” he said, looking
closer into her eyes. The wretched woman shrieked
and shrieked again. Then she caught the switch of the
electric light and the room was plunged into darkness,
and she sank in a heap to the floor.


CHAPTER XIX
AN INQUISITION
Jordison heard the crash of breaking doors as he slid
swiftly down the ladder to the garden. He threw the
ladder to the ground, called out to Lipp to follow him,
and, looking back as he ran across the lawn, he saw the
Countess' apartments flooded with light and two figures
leaning out of the window. A second later they disap-
peared.
He was glad he had removed the ladder. He had
gained at least a minute's start. Fortunately the night
was dark and rather foggy, and when the two men
reached the park, and the rustle of bushes or crunch of
gravel no longer gave a clue to their pursuers, they
breathed more freely. They saw a half-dozen lanterns
moving rapidly to and fro behind them, and heard men
calling out to one another. Their pursuers would have
nothing to guide them in their search, and the park was
a large place.
When at last they reached the spot where the motor
stood under the shadow of a great cypress-tree, they
could only see one light, and that was several hundred
yards to the north and close to the road. They started
the machinery and the car glided silently away to the
south. It was the opposite direction to the way they
199


200
The Black Motor-Car
wanted to go, but Jordison was determined to take no
risks. If the man who carried that single light caught
sight of a motor, he might draw unpleasant but correct
conclusions.
It took them an hour to reach the Red House. Jordi-
son had to drive slowly, for he was driving without a
headlight, and they had to traverse a series of narrow
lanes, in places half a foot deep with mud and loose
stones.
When he had run the motor into the shed, he went
over to the stables, unlocked the door of the harness-
room and lit a lantern. Then he poured himself out a
stiff glass of whisky and water and ate a thick chunk
of bread with a slice of cold bacon laid on it. When he
had finished his frugal meal he went out and, locking
the door behind him, made his way up a flight of stone
steps to the small loft which he had appropriated as his
bedroom.
He lit a pipe and began to undress. The bed looked
cold and unattractive by the light of the lantern. He
began to think it was scarcely worth while taking off his
clothes. It would be daybreak in another three hours.
He put on his waistcoat again, and, taking down a heavy
fisherman's jersey from a peg on the wall, thrust it over
his head and struggled into it. Then he flung himself
down on the outside of the bed and tried to go to sleep.
He was thoroughly exhausted both in mind and body.
But sleep does not always confer favours where they are
most wanted. Jordison closed his eyes, lit pipe after
pipe to soothe his brain, but he could not sleep.


.
201
An Inquisition
The events of that night had stirred his mind into a
seething whirlpool of thoughts. To many a man the
recollection of how close he had stood to death, and how
providentially he had escaped, would have come to the
surface; but to Jordison one great central thought
floated clear above everything else. He had found
Marie de la Mothe.
There was not a single discordant thought of kindness
in the black mass of hatred that heaved and tossed in
his brain. He did not remember that she had lost her
only son, that she was afflicted by a terrible disease, and
that, to use her own words, she had found a living death.
He did not remember that she had spared his life be-
cause he had kissed the ring she once gave him. He
only saw the treachery of the past, those long years of
hell in a convict prison, years in which she had risen
from a somewhat dubious existence to a position second
to few held by a woman in England.
The man's moral nature had broken down. He was
incapable of discerning between good and evil. He
only saw the latter, and he resolved that Marie de la
Mothe must die. That would be an easy matter to
arrange. The only difficulty had been overcome. She
had been found, and a chance meeting had revealed
what the expenditure of many hundred pounds of good
money had failed to unearth from the secrets of the past.
His thoughts were broken by the clanking of metal in
the stables underneath. It was followed by a stifled
moan. Then there was a silence, and then a loud rattle
of iron as though some beast were trying to break loose


204
The Black Motor-Car
Holme sank back on the straw and glared at him like
a wild beast.
“Why are you not reasonable?" Jordison continued.
“You will be bound to get the worst of it. It is not
much I ask of you. You have only to tell me all you
know about Arthur Sterious.”
"I will tell you nothing,” Holme replied doggedly.
“You cannot look me in the face and say you know
nothing,” Jordison said sternly. “I can see that you
are lying. If I thought for a moment that you spoke
the truth, I would let you go."
“No, you would not let me go,” Holme replied.
“You dare not after what has happened.”
He referred to his own imprisonment. He did not
then know that Jordison had far stronger reasons for
keeping him from communication with the outer world.
He did not know that William Outen was dead.
Jordison bit his lip with vexation. He saw now that
he had made a mistake. Only the hope of release would
extract any information from Arthur Holme. And
Holme realised that whether he spoke or not there
was no hope of release. He would therefore keep his
mouth shut. Jordison hastened to remove this im-
pression.
"I shall certainly let you go, Mr. Holme,” he said,
after a pause. "I shall of course ask you to give me
your word of honour not to say anything of what has
occurred. But I shall certainly let you go.”
Holme looked up keenly into the dark fierce face.
“You lie, you scoundrel,” he said, “I shall never


An Inquisition
205
leave here alive with your consent. I shall not
speak.”
"There are ways of making men speak,” Jordison
replied grimly. “You might come to think of death as
something very sweet indeed. You might even be in-
duced to speak by the offer of death. But I will give
you one more chance. Do you know if Arthur Sterious
is in England ?"
Holme was silent.
“How did his watch get into the creek, where we
found it?”
Holme was still silent.
“What connection had you with Richard Behag when
you were in Valparaiso ?”
Still Holme did not answer.
“Do you know anything about Behag's death that is
not known to the police of Valparaiso ?”
Holme shrugged his shoulders, but still did not
reply.
“Do you know whether it was Arthur Sterious or
Richard Behag, or both, who defrauded the firm of
Sterious & Company, and do you know what cause of
quarrel there was between Behag and Sterious ?”
At last Holme spoke.
“I have heard all these questions before,” he said
quietly; "you are wasting your breath and time, Mr.
Jordison.”
"I will do so no longer," Jordison replied. “I will
gag you and leave you to think over them till the morn-
ing. Are you going to let me gag you quietly, or must


206
The Black Motor-Car
I use force? You know it has to be done. It would not
do for any one to hear you.”
"I refuse to be gagged until you have given me some
water."
"You shall have all you want to-morrow."
“For God's sake, give me some water-just a wine-
glassful.”
“Not a single drop until to-morrow. Now, are you
going to let me gag you quietly ?"
“Come and try it,” Holme replied, rising to his knees.
In a second Jordison was upon him, and had borne him
to the ground. Holme dashed his fists in the man's
face, and the blood streamed down his fingers. He fas-
tened his teeth in his hands and bit out a piece of flesh.
Both were powerful men, but the contest was too un-
equal. In less than a minute Jordison had choked
Holme into insensibility with the rope that was fastened
round his neck. Then he forced open the mouth, in-
serted the gag and secured it tightly.
When this was done he rose to his feet, and looking
down at the prostrate figure, began to fill his pipe. Then
he pulled out his matchbox, but his fingers shook with
the struggle he had just gone through, and the box fell
to the floor. He stooped down, gathered up the matches,
lit his pipe and went out of the loose box, locking all the
doors after him. In less than half an hour he was
asleep.
An hour afterward Holme partly recovered his senses.
He was semidelirious, and gurgled inarticulate sounds
in his throat. Lights flashed before his eyes, and


An Inquisition
207
strange noises vibrated in his ears. He had dreamt of
running water in his swoon, and stretched out his hand
to find the water-jug. He found nothing but a single
wax match. He turned it round and round in his fin-
gers. Then he laughed horribly—the laugh of a maniac
stified by the gag into a low sobbing moan.


CHAPTER XX
AN ESCAPED PRISONER
When Jordison awoke from his sleep it was still dark.
He struck a match and looked at his watch. It was
6:30. He had been asleep barely an hour. The sun
would not rise for another hour and a half, and turning
over on his side he tried to snatch a little more rest be-
fore he started the day's work. He had not undressed,
and still lay on the outside of his bed.
Just as he had settled his head comfortably on his
pillow, and was dozing off to sleep, he noticed a strange
smell in the room. He raised himself up on his elbow
and sniffed. It was undoubtedly a curious smell, but
he did not realise for a few seconds what it was. Then,
as he thoroughly roused himself, he recognised the faint
pungent odor. It was the smell of something burning.
He jumped off his bed and lit his lantern. The light
showed a faint grey haze in the room. He searched
carefully for the cause, but found nothing.
Then suddenly a low stifled cry broke the silence
of the night. It was followed by the loud rattling of
chains, and then by another cry, longer and louder
than the first. In a flash Jordison realised where the
smoke came from. The stable was on fire underneath
him.
208


An Escaped Prisoner
209
He rushed from the room and roused Lipp from a
heavy sleep. Jermy snored beside him and Lipp raised
a brawny arm for a rude awakening. But Jordison
stopped him.
"Let him be,” he said hurriedly, “two are quite
enough, and if by any chance we cannot put the fire
out, well- " He shrugged his shoulders, and Lipp
understood. Jermy was a constant menace to both of
them.
Lipp thrust on a jersey and a pair of trousers, and fol-
lowed his master down the stairs. When they got out-
side, the smoke was pouring through the stable windows,
for there was not a pane of glass in any of them. Within,
they could see the dull red glow of fire, and, as they
neared the door, they heard a long and horrible scream
and the clank of chains.
"Quick, Lipp,” cried Jordison, handing him the key.
“He must be saved at any cost.” Lipp did not wait to
fumble with the key, but burst the door open with his
shoulder. A volume of flames and sparks flew out, and
the two men shrank back from the opening. There was
another scream, and a hoarse cry for help and the noise
of chains being tugged and shaken.
"He is alive and has got his gag off,” said Jordison
hurriedly. “I expect the fire has not reached him yet.
The loose box is made of iron. If he is alive, we can
live there too. There's the window. Quick."
They ran to the window at the far end. Jordison tore
away the wooden framework with his hands and climbed
into the stable. The air inside was comparatively
14


210
The Black Motor-Car
free from smoke, but was as hot as the blast of a
furnace.
In five minutes' time Jordison reappeared and thrust
a limp form through the window. A loose chain dan-
gled from one ankle, and a loop of rope was still round
the drooping neck. The hands were crossed close to-
gether in the iron clasp of the handcuffs. Lipp took the
burden from Jordison and laid it on the grass.
“Alive,” he said grufily, but without the faintest show
of interest.
“Yes,” said Jordison, coughing and gasping for
breath, “but pretty well choked. I couldn't have stood
another minute of it. One end of the place is like a
furnace. Undo those handcuffs and work his arms a
bit to put some air into his lungs. He is safe enough at
present."
Lipp unfastened the handcuffs, and tried the process
recommended for the resuscitation of drowning men.
It was, as might have been expected, singularly unsuc-
cessful. Holme neither sighed nor opened his eyes.
"Go down to the creek,” said Jordison, “and get
some water. I am going to see what I can save. We
shall be burnt out to-night. No, stay, you had better
come and help me. He is not dead. He can shift for
himself. Put on the handcuffs, take him down to the
house, and chain him by the legs to something—a bar of
the cellar window will do."
These words had a sudden and unexpected result.
Holme, who had been shamming unconsciousness,
sprang to his feet, dashed one fist in Lipp's face and the


An Escaped Prisoner
211
other in Jordison's stomach, and sent them both sprawl-
ing. Before they could recover themselves, he had
caught up the loose chain in one hand and started down
the slope toward the creek.
Holme was a young and athletic man, and with the
fifty yards start he had obtained, he reached the creek
before his pursuers, in spite of his weakness and the
chains encumbering his progress.
He gained the creek, and plunged through the mud
until the water reached his waist. Then he struck out
for the opposite bank. The weight of the chain became
painfully apparent, and he could barely keep his head
above water. But he was a powerful swimmer, and he
struggled through the incoming tide to a point nearly a
hundred yards above the place where he had entered
the water.
As he felt the soft mud under his feet once more, he
breathed a sigh of relief. From the opposite bank came
the report of a pistol, and a bullet sang to the left of him.
He flung himself down in the mud and waited. Five
more shots went over his head, and then he heard the
squelch of mud and the splashing of water.
He rose from his soft, but malodorous bed, and
reached the bank. The splashing of water continued.
Then he heard a voice cry out that the current was too
strong to keep a foothold, and another giving the order
to go back. Neither of his pursuers could swim, and
for a while he was beyond their reach. '
On the opposite bank the stables of the Red House
flared fiercely, and he crept on all fours from the lurid


212
The Black Motor-Car
and unwelcome light. He knew that so long as he was
a mark for a rifle his life was in danger. Foot by foot
he crept out of the glare into the darkness.
He realised that Jordison and Lipp would not give
up pursuit, but endeavour to intercept him before he
could reach a place of safety. But now all the advan-
tage was on his side. He knew every inch of the creeks
and marshes, and before the eastern sky showed grey
with the coming dawn he had threaded his way west-
ward, had swum the creek again and was moving across
the park to Heatherstone Hall. His chain clanked at
every step he made. It was the only refuge at hand, the
only shelter where he could find any human beings to
protect him.
But as he crossed the lawn his senses reeled, and his
strength gave way, and he fell in a heap on the green
turf. And there the gardeners found him in the morn-
ing, delirious and crying out for water, too weak to move
an inch from the place where he had fallen.
The men went indoors with the news, and a crowd of
servants gathered on the lawn. They talked volubly,
but were uncertain how to act. Lord Heatherstone was
not yet down. Lady Agnes was with her stepmother.
The whole household were already in a tumult after the
events of the previous night, most of which had now
become public property.
Lady Heatherstone's maid was the only person who
had any definite ideas. She rashly jumped to the con-
clusion that the prostrate man had some connection
with the attempted burglary of the night before. The


An Escaped Prisoner
213
chain on his ankle suggested to her mind an escaped
convict, and who more likely than an escaped convict to
be connected with robbery and violence? She voiced
her opinion in shrill tones, and the men, most of whom
were, or had been, in love with her, applauded her per-
spicacity.
Certainly, no one recognised Arthur Holme in the
huddled and dripping figure that lay at their feet. His
clothes were torn and blackened with smoke. His face
was bleeding and smeared with soot, his beard and mous-
tache were scorched into a filthy mass of shrivelled hair.
The black mud of the creeks plastered him from head
to foot. He was dressed in a rough blue jersey and a
pair of old serge trousers. His feet were bare, and his
ankles were sore and bleeding where the chain had
chafed them.
They resolved to leave him and send for the police.
Two of the gardeners picked up the chain and held it in
their hands, in case he should attempt to escape. He
did not move, but now and then he cried out for water.
The womenkind were for giving the poor wretch some-
thing to drink. The men, backed up by Lady Heather-
stone's maid, decided to do nothing without Lord
Heatherstone's permission.
One of the footmen was despatched to acquaint his
lordship of their discovery. But, before he reached the
path leading to the servants' quarters, Lady Agnes her-
self appeared from the opposite direction. The crowd
of servants opened out and made way for her. She
came close up to the prostrate man and looked at him.


214
The Black Motor-Car
His face was thrust down on the turf, so that she could
only see the back of his head.
“Who is this?" she asked.
“Water, water,” he moaned piteously.
“Get him some water,” she said sharply. “Why do
you stand staring, and why are you two men holding on
to that chain? Do you think he will run away?”.
The men laid the chain down sheepishly, and one of
them went off for some water. Lady Heatherstone's
maid then began to expound her theory, but Lady Agnes
cut her short.
“That'll do, Brown," she said. “It doesn't matter
who he is. You can see he is half dead. He's been
nearly drowned or burnt alive. Pick him up, some
of you, and take him into the house. Where's Har-
land ?”
. “Gone into Gorehaven, your ladyship," answered one
of the gardeners.
“Well, Edwards, you had better take a horse and
follow him. Tell Dr. Dowsett to come over at once.
This man is very ill. Poor fellow. Poor fellow."
She moved round to the other side of him, and bent
down to see his face. He stirred uneasily, and raised
it a little from the ground. Then her lips whitened, and
she gave a cry of horror, and sinking on her knees, she
took his head between her two hands and peered into
his features.
"It's Mr. Holme," she cried out, rising to her feet.
“Quick, quick, you fools. He is dying. To think that
none of you recognised him, and that — Quick, pick


An Escaped Prisoner
215
him up and take him into the house. There is not a
moment to be lost.”
“Mr. Holme!" echoed one of the servants, feebly.
“He is dead.”
“He will be if you don't stir yourselves,” she cried.
“Brown, be at the hall door with a glass of weak brandy
and water by the time we reach it, and see that a hot
bath is got ready at once."
The maid flew off across the lawn, and two of the men
picked up Arthur Holme and carried him into the house.
Lady Agnes followed them, and sent the rest of the ser-
vants about their business. She had scarcely realised
yet that the dead had come to life, and that her lover
had been restored to her. She only saw a life in danger,
and the necessity for immediate action.
In an hour's time Arthur Holme was in bed, and had
regained his senses. Lord Heatherstone stood by his
side and questioned him kindly. They had parted in
anger, but Holme's helpless condition would have ap-
pealed to the hardest heart, and there was much real
kindness hidden under the pompous and aristocratic
manners of Lord Heatherstone.
Bit by bit Holme told his story. At times he was a
trifle incoherent and he often had to stop. Lord Heath-
erstone did not press for details, but directly he had
gathered the main facts he rang the bell.
“Tell some one to go at once to Gorehaven," he said
when a maid entered. “He must inform the police that
Mr. Jordison of the Red House, and his servants, must
be arrested at once for the murder of the sailor William


216
The Black Motor-Car
Outen. In case they may be too late, send half a dozen
of the men to the Red House at once to secure these
scoundrels, and detain them until the police come. I
will take all responsibility.”
The girl left the room, and Holme, thoroughly ex-
hausted, closed his eyes and slept. Lord Heatherstone
went over to the window, and looked out across the
marshes to where the Red House rose against the eastern
sky. It was a clear, frosty morning, and he could see it
plainly in the sunlight.
He went into his own bedroom and returned with a
pair of powerful field-glasses. Then he opened the win-
dow and directed them on the ugly red brick building.
Nothing stirred, but he could see smoke still rising from
the stables, which appeared to have been burnt to the
ground.
Then suddenly a cloud of smoke and dust rose from
the hill, and several seconds afterward there was a low
boom, like the sound of a distant gun. When the smoke
cleared away, the Red House was a low and shapeless
mass upon the ground. He saw a black oblong thing move
swiftly westward along the road between the two creeks.
Heuttered a word which was neither parliamentary nor
becoming to a man of his position. In less than two
minutes the moving object was hidden behind a clump
of trees on the lawn. Lord Heatherstone closed the
window and went down to breakfast.
By noon the six men had returned. They reported
that they had not encountered a living soul on the road,
and that the Red House was a mere heap of ruins.


CHAPTER XXI
HUE AND CRY
There was little doubt that three of the murderers
had escaped in the motor-car, and that the fourth was
dead. A body, charred and consumed beyond all recog-
nition, had been found by the police in the black ruins
of the stables. There was no evidence to show whether
it was the body of Jordison or that of one of his three
servants. No one knew of Susanson's death, and it was
commonly supposed that three people had escaped.
Holme, indeed, spoke of only having seen one of Jor-
dison's servants, but it was well known that there had
been four men in the house, and it was not extraordinary.
that a person confined to the four square walls of a loose
box should only have come in contact with two of them.
The Red House had tumbled down like a house of
cards. Scarcely one brick was left standing on another.
It resembled a vast rubbish heap, or a building that had
gone through the hands of the house-breakers. It was
no longer the semblance of a house, but a mere pile of
brick, timber, and plaster.
The police had no hope of finding any bodies in the
ruins, for they knew that the house had not been inhab-
ited for some time past, and that Jordison and his ser-
vants had made their home in the stables and outhouses.
217


218
The Black Motor-Car
But they removed every brick till the surface was level
with the garden. They did this as a matter of form,
and did not pursue their investigations into the cellars,
which were entirely choked up with rubbish.
They found no trace of anything, not even of a single
piece of furniture. They came to the conclusion that it
had all been removed to the stables and that it had per-
ished in the fire. There was an element of weakness in
this theory, for it would have been hard to get a houseful
of furniture into the stables, but the theory had to serve
in default of a better one.
Both Lady Heatherstone and Arthur Holme were
carefully questioned and cross-examined. The former
withheld all information as to Jordison's real name and
past history. The latter gave his evidence to the best
of his ability, but slurred over the matter of Arthur Ste-
rious as an unimportant detail and some hallucination
of Jordison's brain. Other minor witnesses contributed
to the general stock of knowledge, and Lord Heather-
stone stated what he had seen from the bedroom win-
dow.
The sum total of it all was that William Jordison and
his servants were responsible for the murders of Lord
Overcliffe and William Outen, and that three of them
had escaped from the district on a very powerful motor-
car. The latter had been seen on the old Roman cause-
way by two oyster fishermen, whose boat was lying up
one of the creeks. And then all trace of it had vanished
as completely as though it had been swallowed up in the
ooze of the marshes.


Hue and Cry
219
The Essex papers, in commenting on the case, said
that the only satisfactory feature of the whole affair was
the fact that three such determined ruffians had escaped
from the neighbourhood, and that the fourth was dead.
One journal, progressive and ultra-Radical, printed
some severe remarks about the stupidity of the police
aiming thereby at the government-and even hinted
that the evidence of Arthur Holme and Lady Heather-
stone was not entirely satisfactory.
The whole affair caused the greatest sensation
throughout England and Scotland. Lord Heatherstone
added another five thousand pounds to the promised
reward, and the enormous sum of ten thousand pounds
awaited the fortunate man who could discover the
whereabouts of the three murderers.
The hunt which had formerly been confined to a
small and little known district on the east coast, now be-
came general throughout the length and breadth of the
land. Three men on a motor-car, which report had
exaggerated into a monster as big as a railway locomo-
tive, might be found anywhere between John O'Groats
and Land's End.
Such a car, as a half-penny evening paper said, anni-
hilated space, and threw all ordinary detective methods
into confusion. It might one day be in Yorkshire and
the next in Devon, and the next in Inverness. It might
be seen anywhere and by any inhabitant in Great
Britain.
The Irish alone slept safely in their beds at night.
They were not grateful, and construed this pleasing cir-


220
The Black Motor-Car
cumstance into a grievance. The reward was not likely
to come their way, where the money was most wanted.
The Irish papers pooh-poohed the whole affair.
It was a bad time for the drivers of big cars, especially
those who travelled by night. Police traps abounded
on every road and enthusiastic amateurs drove madly in
pursuit of brother motorists, only to find that they were
themselves the objects of pursuit. Accidents occurred
with alarming frequency. Half a dozen lives were lost,
and there were at least threescore actions for damages.
The whole thing would have been laughable if so serious
a fact had not been at the root of it.
Of course, the missing car was seen by a thousand
correspondents to the daily papers, and, like the sea-
serpent, it varied so greatly in size and appearance that
no credence whatever could be attached to the different
narratives. It became a will-o'-the-wisp, a phantom
eluding all pursuit and all attempts at capture. It was
sometimes seen in two places, some hundred miles apart,
at the same hour. In time the excitement became the
ridicule of all sober-minded men, and it died out almost
as rapidly as it had arisen.
In two months' time only the police and a few deter-
mined seekers after the reward took any further interest
in the search. And these worked silently and unosten-
tatiously, following out their own methods and theories
without any desire for publicity in the newspapers.
They kept their attention fixed, not on powerful cars
that travelled by night, but on the list of burglaries that
occurred throughout the United Kingdom.


Hue and Cry
221
It was possible for the thieves to get rid of their car,
but it was more than likely that they would continue
to steal. The result was disappointing. Several bur-
glaries occurred in the two months, but in every case the
thieves had been captured, and none of them corre-
sponded to the description of Jordison or any of his three
servants. It almost seemed as if they had broken up
their car and left the country.
Arthur Holme took no part in the general search. It
was three weeks before he could leave Heatherstone
Hall. He received every attention at the hands of Lord
Heatherstone and his wife, but he was not allowed to
see or speak to Lady Agnes. He did not mention her
name, and her father made no reference to what had
passed between them.
Holme was content to catch an occasional glimpse of
her from the window. She never looked up at him nor
showed any desire to see him. This indifference might
have been a source of annoyance to a sick man whose
nerves had been considerably shaken. But Holme was
strong-minded and sensible. He was sure of her love,
and he knew that she acted from motives that could not
be ascribed to indifference.
The restraint on his part and the quiet indifference
of Lady Agnes did not escape the notice of the shrewd
Lord Heatherstone, and the young man rose considera-
bly in his estimation. He had already formed a high
opinion of Holme's abilities, and it was no unusual thing
for him to spend a couple of hours in the invalid's bed-
room and talk seriously to him of political matters.


222
The Black Motor-Car
The noble Earl had every hope of winning over this
promising recruit to the Conservative cause. Holme's
views on certain matters were fixed and unalterable.
But he cared little for party shibboleths. He had the
cause of the poor at heart, and he had assisted the Lib-
eral candidate because he thought that by so doing he
would further the interests of the poor fishermen in the
district. He would have as readily worked for a Con-
servative candidate if the latter had held out the same
bait.
Lord Heatherstone, ex-diplomat that he was, was not
slow to grasp the situation. He pointed out that in the
next general election there would be a reshuffling of the
cards. He (the Earl) was a free-trader, and might be
separated from his colleagues. Holme was also a free-
trader. This would be a bond between them, and
would bring them into the same political party, when
the whole election was fought out on the question of
protection.
Before Holme left Heatherstone Hall they had come
to a closer understanding, and Holme had definitely
promised his support against any political doctrine that
threatened the existence of free trade.
The young man, it is only fair to say, was not entirely
disinterested in thus promising his allegiance to the Earl
of Heatherstone. During his three weeks of sickness
he had thought much of his own career, and the un-
pleasant conviction had come to him that he was wasting
much precious time.
He had not been an idle man since he had been in


Hue and Cry
223
Essex. He had the past to blot out, and that meant
work. He did not want any spare time to think over
his life as a sailor. He wished also, in some measure,
to atone for many wasted hours. He had a small in-
come, and was not obliged to work for his bare suste-
dance.
So he had thought that he could not do better than
fling himself heart and soul into the righting of social
wrongs, into the alleviation of distress among the poor,
into schemes which would raise the workingman socially
and morally from his slough of despondency.
The seafaring folk had always been near his heart,
and he had narrowed down his general theories to this
particular class. He had gone among them as one
of themselves, and worked incessantly in their be-
half.
His philanthropy had taken the form of labour and
not of gifts, which he could not afford. He had raised
a considerable sum of money from wealthy people, and
built the men a good clubhouse, where they could get
both billiards and beer.
He had set to work to study the oyster-fisheries, and
had suggested several improvements in the antiquated
methods that had been handed down from father to son
for more than a century. And in every sense of the
word he had proved himself a true friend to these rough
but sterling men.
He had grasped from the first the true spirit of the
sea, and after he had fought and won two battles on
their behalf, one against the interference of the fishmon-


Hue and Cry
225
under a cloud. Several cases of typhoid had been traced
to the beds which lay up one of the Essex creeks, and
the public began to institute a silent but indiscriminate
boycott of the oysters of the whole county. An indus-
try which supported many hundreds of hard-working
and capable men was threatened almost with extinction.
Their outcry would never have reached the ears of Par-
liament, which had many matters of more importance
to discuss, if it had not been for the voice of Lord Harry
Quy.
He moved for a commission to inquire into the cause
of typhoid in the creek in question, and to suggest some
means of purifying the water and restoring public confi-
dence in the Essex oysters. After some haggling, it was
resolved that a committee be appointed. It was com-
posed of two doctors, two members of Parliament, two
sanitary inspectors, two bacteriologists, and Arthur
Holme.
At the suggestion of Lord Heatherstone, the latter
was nominated chairman. His practical knowledge of
the oyster-fisheries, and his influence with the men em-
ployed in the industry outweighed his comparative
youth and obscurity. Moreover, it was thought advisa-
ble for a lay mind to direct and control the various pro-
fessional elements of the commission.
With the prospect of this promising entry into public
life, Holme resolved to start on a three-weeks' cruise on
the Rover, hoping that the air of the sea would restore
him to perfect health and vigor.
Lord Heatherstone said “Good-bye” to him with gen-
15


226
The Black Motor-Car
uine regret, and promised him the entire Heatherstone
support if he would stand for the western division of
Gloucestershire at the next general election. Lord
Heatherstone owned large estates in this county, and
in his own person represented the balance of political
power.
The Rover, with two hands on board, for Holme was
not yet sure of his strength, was anchored off the park
wall. It was a bright, frosty morning, and, as they
glided down the narrow creek, Holme's thoughts re-
verted to the night when he had run, as it were, into the
very jaws of hell.
In an hour's time they passed the place where the Red
House had once stood. The little hill was almost bare.
The police had levelled everything to the ground and
scattered the débris over the marshes.
Arthur Holme wondered what had become of the
occupants. The hue and cry was still loud over the
length and breadth of England. But the excitement of
the chase had long left the place where the quarry had
first been started. The missing motor had been seen
everywhere save in the district where Jordison had first
driven it. Essex had contributed nothing but the two
murders to the general uproar. It was the source, the
fountain-head, but the stream had flowed far from it
and into many channels.
A bare hill, naked and ugly in the sunlight, was all
that William Jordison had left behind him.


CHAPTER XXII
THE SCOURGE
It was not till three months after the disappearance
of William Jordison and his servants that the first clue
of their existence came to light. It came, much to the
disgust of those who pinned their faith to Sherlock
Holmes, to the despised police at Warley Dale in York-
shire.
A daring burglary had been committed at the country
house of a wealthy steel manufacturer. Jewels, valued
at twenty thousand pounds, had been stolen, and the
thieves had made off without interruption. The loss
was not discovered until the next morning.
Mr. Strangways, doubtful of the ability of the local
police, wired for a detective from Scotland Yard, but
before the man arrived, a stolid Yorkshire constable
made a discovery of the greatest importance.
He was searching the lawns and drive for footprints,
but there had been a heavy rain the night before, and
he found no trace of any kind whatever, except the fresh
tracks of the people who had passed up the drive in the
morning. Then, as he was walking through some dead
and rotting leaves that the wind had gathered into a
small ridge by the edge of the path, his foot struck some-
thing hard.
227


228
The Black Motor-Car
Stooping down he picked up a small steel spanner.
It was greasy to the touch and smelt strongly of oil.
He examined it carefully and found that it was made by
the firm of Jacquart et Cie. in Paris. The name con-
veyed nothing to his mind, but his slow brain grasped
the fact that it was a possible clue to the discovery of
the burglars. He had a dim idea that it might be part
of their equipment for breaking open the safe.
He said nothing to his colleague, but, when the detec-
tive arrived from London, he showed him the spanner
and asked his opinion. Kennedy, a big, keen-eyed,
quiet man, turned it over and over in his hand and smelt
it carefully. Then he looked at the name stamped on
its surface, and a smile of triumph came over his face.
He already saw himself the possessor of a comfortable
income for life; and the little country cottage where he
hoped to spend the rest of his days seemed quite near
to him.
“Say nothing of this to anyone,” he said, after a pause.
"It is absolutely necessary that this discovery should not
get into the newspapers.”
“What is it?" asked the constable.
“It is a spanner for a motor and was made in France.
Do these facts bring anything to your mind ?”
"A motor?” said the policeman slowly. “Mr.
Strangways has a motor.”
"A steel manufacturer is hardly likely to get his span-
ners from France. Besides, the name is quite sufficient
clue to the thieves of last night.” The constable shook
his head. These London detectives were beyond him.


The Scourge
229
He had read of them in books, and knew that they ar-
rived at wonderful conclusions. Still, he felt proud to
be talking to so clever a man, and tried to look intelli-
gent.
“Do you remember the murder of Lord Overcliffe ?”
the detective continued, “and the story of William Jor-
dison ?”
The man's face brightened. He slowly grasped the
situation. The reference to the motor became clear to
bim.
“Ten thousand pounds!” was all that he could gasp
out.
“Yes,” Kennedy replied, “and half of it is yours if
you will keep your mouth shut. If you don't, neither
of us will touch a penny. The clue is a certain one.
Jordison used to be chairman of Jacquart et Cie. It
only remains for us to follow the clue up. This is a
great, mark you, a great discovery. But keep your
mouth shut. Are you married ?”
“Yes, sir."
“Well, don't tell your wife anything. Now let's have
another look around.”
The reappearance of the celebrated black motor-car
would have provided many columns for the newspapers,
but not a word of the discovery reached them. The
robbery attracted but little attention in the London
dailies. The police, said The Daily Telegraph, had a
clue, and were following it up.
In less than a week the whole affair was forgotten.
Had it occurred two months earlier half England would


The Scourge
231
morning paper wrote a special article for his journal.
The article was headed, “Has Jordison Come to Life
Again ?" and it set forth a reasonable theory that all
these robberies were the work of one gang of thieves,
and that in all probability Jordison and his accomplices
were responsible for the bulk of them.
The indefatigable writer had traced and catalogued
a score of smaller robberies, which had hitherto been of
purely local interest, and had never been noticed in the
London papers—mere thefts of bread and meat and
spirits from shops and farmhouses.
He prepared an elaborate plan of dates and places
and pointed out that all the minor thefts had occurred
on probable lines of route between two successive jewel
robberies, and that the dates were consistent with the
theory that these small affairs were merely the means
of getting food while journeying from one job to another.
The next day the paper published a map dotted with
dates and places, and made the theory plain to the mean-
est intelligence.
Detective Kennedy ground his teeth and swore an
assortment of fancy oaths as he read this article, and he
tore the map into fifty pieces before he put it on the fire.
The same idea had occurred to him, and in his pocket
was a piece of paper with a similar list of dates and
places.
His own was perhaps a trifle more complete, and in-
cluded one of vital and peculiar importance, namely, the
theft of a few gallons of petrol from a bicycle shop, but
substantially the two were the same.


232
The Black Motor-Car
Kennedy cursed the clever fool who had thrown all
this information to the public, like pearls before swine.
Naturally secretive and silent, he did not understand the
true spirit of journalism, which is to shout out all you
know as loudly as possible.
Before a week was over, all England fell at the feet
of the crime investigator and hailed him as a leader of
men. The amateur detectives emerged from their ob-
scurity and once more the drivers of big cars suffered
untold annoyance.
The hue and cry was raised all over England. The
seekers after the ten thousand pounds reward were per-
haps a trifle more cautious than they had been in the
first instance, but they proved themselves an intolerable
nuisance to all peaceable citizens.
Kennedy saw that the game was up, and that the re-
sults of his own patient researches were in the hands of
every fool in the United Kingdom. He resolved to
make what he could out of his information.
One morning he called at the office of a great evening
paper and left there with a substantial cheque in his
pocket. That very evening posters flared out all over
London with “Authentic News of Jordison," and the
first real evidence against this determined criminal ap-
peared in print.
The clamour increased, and the result was quite as
the shrewd detective had imagined. The robberies
ceased and the thieves retired into their hiding-place.
Arthur Holme had taken no part whatever in the gen-
eral search for William Jordison. For reasons which were


234
The Black Motor-Car
picion. But when they found that the end had justified
the means, and that the report of the commission had
cleared the district of an undeserved opprobrium, they
hailed Holme as their deliverer, and placed him on a
pedestal that was nearly as high as that of their patron,
St. Nicholas.
With all this work in hand, and with the prospect of
an election looming in the near future, it can well be
imagined that Arthur Holme had no time to spare for
detective work. Yet he had read the papers carefully
and knew as much of the mysterious thieves as most
men.
He had watched with a smile the heat of the first
enthusiasm, and the marvellous rapidity with which it
had died away. He had noted the long list of burglaries,
and read with approval the article which stirred up the
dead embers into a blazing furnace. He only wondered
why Essex, the source of the whole category of crimes,
had no story to add to the fund of general information.
Then one March evening news was brought to him
which sent him post haste to Heatherstone Hall, and
converted the case of William Jordison from an abstract
problem into a personal matter.
The black motor-car had been seen for the first time
since the destruction of the Red House, and not only had
it been seen, but it had been seen in Essex. And that
very same day Lady Agnes Cliffe had gone out for a
walk in the park, and had never returned to Heather-
stone Hall.


CHAPTER XXIII
NORTHWARD
Lady Agnes Cliffe had disappeared as completely as
though the ground had swallowed her up. She had left
the house about six o'clock without the knowledge of
her parents. One of the gardeners had seen her cross
the lawn, and go down through the gate into the park.
The evening was a fine one, but there appeared to be no
reason why she should have chosen to take a walk so
late in the afternoon.
It was probable, therefore, that she had gone out on
some special errand. One of the footmen, on being
questioned by Lord Heatherstone, reported that he had
handed her a letter about 3:30. It had come in by the
afternoon post. No trace of the letter could be found
in her bedroom, and she had evidently destroyed it or
taken it with her.
No special notice was taken of her absence till dinner-
time, when she failed to put in an appearance. The
search commenced at once and continued all night and
the whole of the next day.
Messengers were despatched in every direction in the
hope of finding some one who had seen her. But they
brought back no information, and the searchers in the
235


236
The Black Motor-Car
park found no traces of a struggle or anything that would
point to an act of violence.
But late that afternoon a sailor, rather the worse for
liquor, came up to the Hall and reported that about
six o'clock the previous evening he had seen a large
motor-car running along the road at the foot of the
park.
It was too dark for him to distinguish the number of
the occupants or even the colour of the car. He further
explained, with a tinge of pride, that he was in no fit
state to see anything clearly, having just returned from
a long voyage, and having spent most of the previous
day in the Plough and Sail at Gorehaven.
This news, told somewhat incoherently, sent a thrill
of horror through those who listened to the speaker.
There was no doubt in any one's mind that Lady Agnes
had fallen into the hands of the arch-ruffian, William
Jordison.
There appeared, however, to be no reason for her
abduction, unless it had been carried out in the hope of
obtaining a ransom. This method of obtaining money
did not seem practicable in a civilised and open country.
It was possible in the mountains of Spain or Greece, but
hardly to be imagined in the lanes and marshes of Essex.
The next morning, however, two people knew why
Lady Agnes had disappeared. Both Lady Heather-
stone and Arthur Holme received letters from Jordison
himself. They had been posted from Up Withing, a
small village in Yorkshire, and were somewhat similar
in their contents.


Northward
237
One, which would have certainly surprised Lord
Heatherstone, ran as follows:
“DEAR MARIE:
"It may be possible to strike you through the death
of one you love. One day I hope to strike a harder and
more final blow.
W. J."
Lady Heatherstone burnt the letter and was silent as
to its contents. The other ran thus:
“DEAR MR. HOLME: The life of the woman you love
is in my hands. You know the price of her release.
“W. J.”
This letter was brought out to Arthur Holme as he
was spending a few days on the Rover preparatory to
the start of his campaign in Gloucestershire. From the
bearer of it he heard the first news of the disappearance
of Lady Agnes Cliffe. He hurriedly thrust some things
in a bag, returned in the man's boat, and drove thirty
miles to Heatherstone Hall.
Lord Heatherstone received him in the library, and
told him the little that was known about the affair. In
return Arthur Holme handed him the letter. The Earl
read it through twice, and then glanced keenly at the
young man.
“So Jordison is alive,” he said, “and it was one of his
servants who perished in the fire.”
"It seems so,” Holme replied.
“Do you know Jordison's writing?” Lord Heather-
stone asked.


238
The Black Motor-Car
“No," answered Holme frankly, "I do not. This may
be the work of some practical joker."
“It can be easily verified,” said Lord Heatherstone.
“What price does this man expect you to pay? Did you
ever meet him before you came across him at the Red
House?” And Lord Heatherstone watched Holme's
face carefully as he asked the question.
“Never,” Holme replied emphatically. "He's a
madman, and wishes to know something which I am
unable to tell him.”
“Then he has no real cause for disliking you ?”
“None whatever," Holme replied, but he turned his
eyes away from Lord Heatherstone's keen gaze as he an-
swered the question. He knew very well why Jordison
disliked him.
The shifting of the eyes did not escape Lord Heath-
erstone's notice, and he made a mental note that Holme
had told him a lie.
"Lord Harry Quy is here,” he said after a pause.
“He came down last night to see if he could help us in
any way. You will, of course, stay the night. We shall
be glad of your company, and perhaps between the three
of us we may be able to work out some solution of this
problem. Ah! here is Harry himself.”
Lord Harry Quy came toward them, hesitated a mo-
ment, and then shook hands silently with Holme. The
two young men had not met for several months. A cer-
tain coolness had sprung up between them, in spite of
their strenuous efforts to resist any feelings of jealousy.
Their correspondence had died down to the exchange of


Northward
239
an occasional formal letter dealing with political mat-
ters.
Lord Harry, to whom Lord Heatherstone had un-
burdened his soul in the first heat of anger against Ar-
thur Holme, felt that his friend had not acted quite hon-
estly toward him. Holme, who had for a long time
fought against the dictates of his own heart out of loy-
alty to his friend, bitterly resented the imputation,
which, though it had never been expressed in words, had
been made manifest by Lord Harry's manner toward
him.
But all the red passions grow pale in the presence of
death. The girl they both loved was either dead or else
in the hands of a madman, who had hitherto let nothing
stand between him and his desires. They were united
by a common bond, and resolved to save or avenge her.
The bond was sealed in silence by a single clasp of their
hands. Its terms were not set forth in words, but it was
understood that they worked together without regard to
what the future held for either of them.
After dinner they sat that evening over the smoking-
room fire and thrashed out the whole question of where
it would be best to search for William Jordison. Lord
Heatherstone admitted that it would be like looking for
a needle in a haystack.
Lord Harry Quy, who had come down from London
on a new motor-car of extraordinary power and speed,
thought that he would be able to trace Jordison to his
hiding-place if he could once get fairly started on a
warm trail. Holme, whose ideas were local, thought


240
The Black Motor-Car
that Jordison was in the neighbourhood, and that the
letter posted from Up Withing in Yorkshire was a mere
blind. He could assign, so he said, no other motive for
the writing of such a letter.
The next morning, after an early breakfast at eight
o'clock, Lord Harry Quy took Arthur Holme round to
the stables to inspect the new motor-car. It had been
manufactured by a well-known firm, and had only just
been put on the market. It represented the “last word"
of the motor world in regard to power and speed.
It was an eight-cylinder car, one hundred and twenty
indicated horse power, and had attained at a recent speed
trial the terrific pace of ninety-seven miles an hour. It
had cost four thousand pounds. In appearance it was
long, low hung, wide, and ugly. It had not yet received
its final coat of paint and was coloured a dull grey, like
a modern battleship.
The luxurious padded seats of the modern car were
conspicuous by their absence, for Lord Harry had not
yet decided on the type of body. There were only two
seats, and these were little more than a framework of
steel. The general aspect of the machine was that of the
human body, stripped of its flesh, and showing only the
bones and muscles.
Arthur Holme looked at the unsightly object in si-
lence. He could not pretend to feel the admiration that
Lord Harry Quy expressed in every feature. But he
realised that the mere ugliness of the thing spoke well
for its serviceable qualities. Evidently no money had
been wasted on outward show or decoration.


Northward
241
“She's a beauty, isn't she?" said Lord Harry, after
looking at it for a minute or two in silent admiration.
“H'm,” replied Holme, “how fast do you say?”.
“I shall get one hundred miles an hour out of her
when her engines settle down a bit.”
“Do you think you can beat Jordison's car?"
"I have never seen it, but I reckon this car would
walk around any car that was ever made. The sister-
car is racing three days from now against some of the
finest cars in the world. The makers are betting even
money against the field.”
Holme looked at it critically. He did not know any.
thing about motor-cars. He could have criticised the
lines of a yacht, but this ugly grey lump of machinery
was outside his sphere of knowledge. He saw, how-
ever, that it might be very useful to him in tracking
down Jordison, if it represented all that was claimed
for it.
"I tell you what we'll do, Harry," he said after a
pause, “if you will consent. We will start in an hour's
time for Up Withing in Yorkshire, and see if we can
find any trace of Jordison having been there. Then we
will come back here and thoroughly examine the whole
of Essex. I am still convinced that Jordison is hiding
not far from this very house.”
"Where do you think he is? Somewhere in the
marshes ?"
“Yes. It seems ridiculous, doesn't it? The marshes
are better adapted for a yacht than a motor-car. But
they would offer an excellent place of concealment. For
16


242
The Black Motor-Car
the most part they are totally uninhabited and almost
inaccessible.”
Lord Harry smiled. “You forget the motor," he said;
“no motor could possibly be hidden in the marshes, for
the simple reason that it could not be driven across them.
It would have to be concealed somewhere near the road.
Every inch of the roads has been searched, and no one
has discovered any hiding-place that would conceal a
large car like Jordison's."
“You are right, Quy,” Holme answered gloomily,
"the marshes are out of the question. He must have
concealed himself somewhere else in Essex.”
“Or in England,” Lord Harry replied. “It is, as
Lord Heatherstone said last night, like looking for a
needle in a bundle of hay. For my own part, I don't
think he is in this part of the world at all. It is naturally
the last place he would choose for a hiding-place.”
“And therefore one that would commend itself to a
clever scoundrel,” said Holme. “Do you remember
Poe's story of the 'Purloined Letter'? It will at any
rate be hopeless to search all England.”
“A good many people are in the hunt,” Quy replied;
“ten thousand pounds is a lot of money. I should say
that every square mile of the United Kingdom has been
searched during the last month or two.”
“And yet nothing has been found. The car has only
once been seen, and that was on the road at the bottom
of the park. The man who saw it was not sober at the
time and may have been mistaken. It seems hopeless."
“We are bound to hear something,” Lord Harry re-


CHAPTER XXIV
WILLIAM LIPP OF UP WITHING
Up Withing stands five hundred feet above the level
of the sea in the very heart of the Yorkshire moors. It
consists of twoscore cottages, a public-house licensed for
beer only, a rectory, a church, and four farmhouses.
The two young men drove slowly up the single street
and stopped outside the public-house. The whole vil-
lage turned out to examine the car, and a crowd of
school-children clustered about it like flies round a su-
gar-basin.
Lord Harry Quy went into the little taproom and was
regarded apathetically by three stolid-looking men, each
of whom held a quart mug in his horny hand.
“The landlord ?” said Quy interrogatively.
One of the men thumped the table with his empty
mug, and in a minute the publican appeared. He was
short and broad shouldered, with an unintelligent face,
which seemed to regard the world with a perpetual
scowl. His eyes brightened at the appearance of the
newcomer. He had seen the motor and knew that it
represented money.
"I and my friend want to stop a night here,” Quy
said; “have you a room?"
244


246
The Black Motor-Car
modation. My name is Lord Harry Quy. You needn't
be afraid that I'll run off with your spoons.”
The magic power of a title made itself manifest in
every face. The landlord bowed obsequiously.
Į “What I can give yer, my lord, is at yer disposal.”
"I'll be happy to give yer lordship my room,” the
yokel chimed in, “but perhaps the rector— "
“Your room will do, Mr. Lipp,” Quy broke in curtly.
“Get us a good square meal ready, landlord, we haven't
had anything since breakfast.” The landlord started
to enumerate the contents of his larder, but Quy cut
him short, and went outside to rejoin Holme, who was
vainly struggling to keep a dozen small boys from touch-
ing the machinery of the motor. He briefly told his
news. Holme's face flushed with excitement.
"It's a lucky discovery, and may lead to something,"
he said. “On the other hand, the name may be merely
a coincidence, and even if this yokel is some relative of
Jordison's servant, we may be able to get nothing out
of him. Does he look like a rogue?”
“There he is,” said Quy, pointing at the man who
was slouching out of the inn to make preparation for
the reception of his distinguished guests.
Holme looked at the rugged, inexpressive face and
smiled.
“No, he is not a rogue, but dull and unintelligent. Such
people are often quite as difficult to get information out
of. However, we shall see.”
Arthur Holme and Lord Harry Quy slept that night
in William Lipp's humble cottage. The bedroom, which


William Lipp of Up Withing 247
contained one small and one large bed, was redolent of
soap and furniture polish. A small fire crackled in the
tiny grate, and a bowl of anemones was placed on the
table by the window. Before they turned in for the
night they searched the room thoroughly, but found
nothing.
The next morning they expressed themselves so de-
lighted with their new quarters that they had decided to
stay another night.
William Lipp went out to his work at daybreak, and,
while the two young men were having breakfast at the
inn, an old dame hobbled in from next door and made
the bed. By the time they returned she had disap-
peared, and they had the house to themselves.
They went into the single room, half kitchen, half
parlour, where Lipp spent such part of his time as he
could spare from his work and the public-house. Then
they proceeded to turn the room inside out, making a
thorough search for something that would connect the
occupant with Jordison's servant. They examined the
family Bible, searched every inch of the cupboards,
opened every drawer and went through its contents,
scrutinised every piece of paper that they could lay their
hands on, but they found nothing.
“I've had enough," said Lord Harry Quy, “and I
feel pretty mean about all this business. Let's wait
and have a talk to the fellow this evening. We'll have
in beer, and I expect we'll get something out of him.
It's more straightforward, anyhow.”
Holme did not reply. He was looking hard at the


248
The Black Motor-Car
fireplace. The fire was laid, but it had not been lit.
William Lipp could only afford to use coal on Sundays.
The water for his breakfast and tea was boiled in the
house next door. Holme looked thoughtfully at the
three layers of wood, coal, and paper.
“It's cold,” said Lord Harry Quy; "shall we light
it?”
For reply Holme walked over to the fireplace, and
pulled out a piece of grey paper which projected from
the bars of the grate. It was an envelope addressed to
Mr. William Lipp, Up Withing, Yorkshire. It bore the
postmark of Gorehaven, in Essex. Holme looked in-
side. It was empty. He handed it to Lord Harry, who
gave a low whistle of surprise.
“The scent is getting warm,” he said; "we must cer-
tainly have in that beer to-night. Do you recognise the
handwriting?"
"No," replied Holme, “it is probably that of Jordi-
son's servant. It is the scrawl of an uneducated man.
If it is so, we have an important clue to Jordison's
whereabouts. This was posted the day after Lady Ag-
nes' disappearance; ergo, Jordison was still in the
neighbourhood, and, ergo, his hiding-place is probably
not far from Gorehaven.”
That evening when William Lipp returned from a
wet day's work on the hills, he found the fire lit, a great
joint of cold roast beef, a jar of pickles, bread and but-
ter, and a large plum-cake on the table, and two gallons
of beer reposing on the stone floor. Lord Harry Quy
explained that they did not wish to leave the house


William Lipp of Up Withing 249
that night, and hoped he would join them in some
supper.
By eight o'clock most of the beef had gone, and three-
quarters of the beer was drunk. Holme produced his
tobacco-pouch, and the three men sat over the fire and
smoked. William Lipp, full and satisfied, blinked
lazily. He could hardly grasp the situation. He was
only sure of one thing: that he had made one of the
best meals of his life and that he had washed it down
satisfactorily with unlimited beer.
Holme and Quy had no difficulty in obtaining the in-
formation they required. They commenced to talk
about London, and asked William Lipp if he had ever
been there. He thought for some time and replied in
the negative. Then Holme asked if he had any rela-
tions there, and if so, he ought to go and visit them,
&c., &c.
Lipp relapsed into a long train of thought and closed
his eyes. Finally he roused himself and admitted that
he had a relative, a cousin, to be exact, and that this
relative lived, not precisely in London, but in Essex,
which was, so to speak, part of London.
Lord Harry Quy questioned him kindly about this
relative, and Lipp, inspired by the compliment of so
great a personage being interested in his humble belong-
ings and warmed by the food, the fire and the beer, told
slowly and with many pauses the story of his cousin's life.
How he had been out to the goldfields for seven years,
and returned with a comfortable little pile. How he
had set up as a green-grocer in Gorehaven, and how he


250
The Black Motor-Car
had generally prospered, and brought the name of Lipp
to a high level.
The two young men smiled, but listened attentively
to every word with an interest that was not entirely
assumed, and at the end of the narrative Holme
carelessly asked if Lipp had heard from his relative
lately. The rustic took a deep draught of beer, and
chuckled.
“Not a week ago," he said; "whoi, he asked I to post
two letters for him, and one of 'em to a lady of title; said
as 'ow he wanted to play a joke on friends of 'is-lady
of title, mark ye-and he said-damn- ".
William Lipp rose unsteadily to his feet, and stood
with wide-open mouth.
“Well ?” said Holme, who was quivering with ex-
citement.
“Whoi, he said as ’ow I warn't to tell anybody about
the letters in case Lady-damn- " And the man
scratched his head.
In spite of the serious importance of the news, the two
young men could not help smiling. Then they adroitly
turned the conversation, and in less than a quarter of an
hour William Lipp was asleep.
Holme whispered to his friend, and they rose to their
feet. Lord Harry slipped two sovereigns into the pocket
of the sleeping man and they left the house with the bag
that contained their clothes. Then they crossed over
to the inn, settled handsomely with the landlord, brought
round the motor from the dilapidated coach-house, and
in less than half an hour Up Withing lay twenty miles


William Lipp of Up Withing 251
to the north of them, and they were speeding southward
as fast as their car could carry them.
It was still dark when they ran down from the un-
dulating hills of western Essex, into the flat country that
stretched eastward to the sea. A thick blanket of mist
lay over the marshes, and the powerful lamps of the car
showed nothing but a white cloud ahead.
They slackened down to the lowest speed, and though
they were now on roads of which every turn and bend
was well known to them, they did not dare run at a
greater pace than eight miles an hour, a crawl that was
only obtained by frequent use of the brake.
Both men were thoroughly tired out, for they had had
but one night's sleep in the last three days. Holme sat
with his chin sunk on his breast, and only the uncom-
fortable nature of his seat prevented him from falling
asleep.
Lord Harry Quy was forced to keep all his senses on
the alert, and his nerves were strung up to such a high
pitch that the activity of his brain overcame the physical
fatigue of his body. Every now and then he took hold
of his companion's arm with his left hand and shook him
violently.
At last Holme roused himself. He had nearly fallen
off his seat, and he began to be impressed with the dan-
ger of his position. He looked at his watch. It was
half-past four. Then he stared into the mist, which
hung round like a curtain on every side.
"Where are we, Quy?” he said, with a yawn.
“We've just passed the bridge over Trumpion's creek.


252
The Black Motor-Car
I could see nothing, but I felt the rise and fall of the
road.” Holme looked behind him.
“The fog seems to be lifting,” he said, “it looks a bit
lighter behind us.” Lord Harry Quy gave a hurried
look behind him, and then slightly quickened the speed
of the car. As he did so the mist turned from dark-
ness into a dull orange, and from orange into several
fainter shades of yellow. Then there was the low
hissing sound of wheels along the muddy road.
“Take one of the side lamps,” Lord Harry Quy called
out, "and hold it over the back.”
Scarcely had Holme done so when the mist showed
like white foam behind them, there was a blinding glare
of light in his eyes, something dark swerved suddenly
to one side, shot past them, showed for a second in the
light of their own lamps, and disappeared into the dark-
ness beyond.
In that brief second Lord Harry Quy had seen a gi-
gantic black car, and two crouching figures masked and
covered with black leather from head to foot.
"Jordison!” he said, putting the lever down another
inch. “He must be mad to drive like that. He was all
but into us, and would have smashed us up if I hadn't
thought of that extra lamp."
"If he can drive at that pace,” replied Holme quietly,
"we can. I'll take the risk.”
"And I, too, by gad,” said Lord Harry Quy. “It is
a straight road.” And he moved the lever from speed
to speed till the lights of the great car tore like meteors
through the darkness.


CHAPTER XXV
THE LONG ROAD
Holme set his face grimly, as the great car shot forward
into the fog. The cold, white mist beat into his face
like a stream of liquid ice. He gripped the sides of his
steel seat with both hands. For the rest he trusted to
Providence and the keen eyes and firm hands of Lord
Harry Quy.
Holme was not used to motor-cars, and a ride of this
sort was calculated to try the nerves of an experienced
man. The fog and darkness closed in on him like the
walls of a vault. The engine throbbed and beat beneath
him like the continual whirr of a loom. The air whis-
tled past his ears like the sharp hiss of a serpent. Be-
hind and on either side lay an impenetrable blackness;
before him, a patch of muddy road rushing toward him
from a white sea of mist.
Lord Harry Quy drove like a madman, his eyes glued
on the brown road and the ridge of grass on either side
which marked out his course. He knew the danger
that lurked in the darkness but he had no time to think
of it. His mind was riveted on a single object, and for
that he was prepared to risk everything.
As the minutes passed and the miles flashed by him
all mental and physical fatigue vanished. He became
253


256
The Black Motor-Car
But his heart was full of gratitude and admiration. His
friend was risking his life for the sake of a woman who
loved another man.
It was indeed a miracle that the car was not wrecked
in that headlong descent, and the successful passage of
these two short miles of down gradient would have
proved a fine advertisement for any makers in the world.
The machine leapt and crashed down the slope like a
living thing.
Every now and then it seemed as though all four wheels
were off the ground, and that the car was flying through
space. Then there would come a grinding crash and
shock, and a shower of mud would fly up before them
like spray from the bows of a vessel. As luck would
have it, the road was now almost free from stones.
But broad though the car was, it rocked from side to
side like a ship in a storm, and it seemed to Holme's
inexperienced eye as though every swing of its great
iron frame would hurl it over on its side into the hedge.
The whole descent occupied less than a minute, but
the sensations of an hour were crowded into that brief
space of time. Holme gave a sigh of relief as they
neared the broad, white stretch of the London road that
ran north and south to right angles of them.
The light was still visible to the north and was now less
than half a mile ahead. For one brief moment Lord
Harry shut off the supply of petrol and applied the brake.
They swung round the corner on two wheels and shot
out on the smooth surface of the road.
In a few seconds Lord Harry had worked his engines


The Long Road 257
up to their top speed, and the strain on his eyes and mind
was at last in some measure relieved. The moon shone
clear on a broad, smooth road, and the speed was terrific.
The journey was luxurious compared to what they had
just experienced in the fog, and through the morass of
that narrow lane.
They could now see the black car itself, and the smell
of its petrol came back to them. But Lord Harry mar-
velled at its silence. The throb of his own engines could
be heard at least a mile away. He realised that if once
the moon went behind a cloud, and if Jordison cared to
risk putting out his lights, they would have nothing to
follow but their own instincts, and would have to guess
at the probable route Jordison would take.
Lord Harry looked up at the sky. A heavy cloud of
white vapour was already near the moon. Then he
looked at the car ahead. He was gaining on it, and he
wondered if he could reach it before the earth was
plunged in darkness. Then suddenly, as though in
answer to his thoughts, the lights before him vanished,
and he had nothing to follow but the outline of the black
car on the white road.
Holme had no doubt that they would overtake Jordi-
son before twenty minutes had elapsed, and he began
to ask himself what would happen if they got alongside
of him. Both he and Lord Harry were unarmed, and
he realised that they had to do with desperate men.
Half a mile away from the parting of the roads they
were so close to Jordison's car that they could hear the
hissing of the wheels and the sound of voices. A second


258
The Black Motor-Car
later the white strip of road vanished as suddenly as
though it had been blotted off the map, and a veil of
darkness descended over the whole scene.
Nothing was visible but the fan of yellow light that
swept on before them. But they could still hear the
sound of wheels on the soft road. It would, however,
be impossible to tell whether Jordison had taken the
right or left turning until they had shot well past the
sign-post. And a wrong turning at this point would
mean the loss of at least a mile in the chase.
Lord Harry Quy peered ahead, but could see nothing.
Their own lamps illuminated the road for nearly fifty
yards in front of them, but beyond that all was darkness.
“Which is it to be,” he said quickly, “the right or
left ?”
For answer Holme took a coin from his pocket and
held it between his open palms.
"Heads right, tails left,” he said.
“Very well,” Lord Harry replied; "it is just as
good a way as any other.” Holme exposed the coin,
and held it down to one of the side-lamps.
“Heads,” he said, and replaced the coin in his pocket.
Lord Harry took the car to the right of the road, and
a few seconds later the white sign-post flashed up like a
ghost on their left and vanished.
It was an anxious moment. Both men listened atten-
tively. Then Lord Harry burst out with a “Thank
God." The faint noise in front of them continued.
Fortune had been with them in this one thing, at any
rate.


The Long Road
259
“We shall overtake it now," said Lord Harry; "there
is not another break in the road for ten miles, and then
he dare not take it. He would have to slow down to
take a right-angle turn. For thirty miles he will have
to go straight ahead on the north road.”
"And what do we do when we overtake it?" asked
Holme.
“We go alongside and talk."
“I'm afraid Jordison won't waste words on us,” he
said dryly, "and I don't think that it would be advisable
to get too close to him. We had better hang on his heels
till daylight and give the alarm. The news will be all
over England in an hour and he cannot possibly escape.”
“You are probably right,” Lord Harry answered,
"but I intend to have a go at him myself. I wish to
meet the gentleman.”
"Few that have met him wish to do so again,” Holme
replied, and the two men relapsed into silence.
The two cars tore on through the night. The hedge-
rows ran past in streaming lines of brown, and the road
spun toward them like a strip of paper from a tape-
machine. Jordison relit his lamps and the glow of
them ran before the pursuers like a cloud of fire.
Up gentle slopes and down long gradients and over
wide stretches of level ground they rushed at the same
headlong speed. Sleeping villages burst into sight and
vanished like scenes that are disclosed from darkness
by a flash of lightning. And inch by inch the grey car
crept up to the object of its pursuit, till at last a black
mass of metal crept out of the darkness into the edge of


260
The Black Motor-Car
the broad fan of light that streamed from the Bleriot
lamps.
“It's a long road,” said Lord Harry Quy, “but the
end of it is in sight.”
Farther and still farther the black car crept into the
light. The two young men could now see the backs of
the occupants. A tall man had his hands on the steer-
ing-gear, and a small squat figure looked back at them.
They could see his face, white in the glare of the lamps,
coarse featured, and evil.
"Lipp,” said Holme, as though in answer to a silent
query on the part of his companion; "we've a tough
couple to deal with, Quy. I wish I had my revolver.
It's the devil's own luck that I left it in Up Withing,
when we went off in such a hurry.”
“You've two hands,” cried Lord Harry, "and I
wouldn't care to have my throat in your fingers."
Holme smiled. Lord Harry had not been in the
clutches of William Jordison.
Then suddenly the squat figure turned right round
and Aung his arm over the back of the car. A second
later there was a flash and a report, and a bullet sang
past Lord Harry's ear.
He laughed. He was strung up to so high a pitch of
excitement that he would have faced a Maxim gun with-
out fear.
There was another flash and yet another, and two
bullets in quick succession struck the ground in front of
the car. Lord Harry laughed again—the aim was so
palpably ridiculous. He chuckled to see his oppo-


The Long Road
261
nents fling away their ammunition on an invulnerable
road.
There was another flash and a metallic ring as the
bullet struck the honeycombing in front of the bonnet.
The cars were now a bare twenty yards apart.
“Keep back,” cried Holme, "we can hang on their
heels all right till daylight.”
“Keep back be damned!” said Lord Harry; "they
can't shoot straight. I will run their cursed car down
in two minutes."
Holme watched Lipp refill his revolver and take care-
ful aim over the back of the car, and he noticed that the
barrel of the revolver pointed downward. Then there
came four flashes, one after the other, as quick as a man
can count. Two struck the road, one hit the hub of the
right-hand wheel, and the fourth found its mark. It
struck the tire with a dull thud and hiss of air.
The car sank slowly over and wrenched the wheel out
of Lord Harry's hand. The next instant the tire was
ripped off the wheel like a piece of paper. The great
car swerved to the right, and a ton of metal came full
tilt into a tree.
Holme was flung from his seat in a crumpled ball and
shot like a bullet into the hedge. Lord Harry Quy, still
strapped to his seat, was crushed against the tree like a
fly on a wall. In a second of time he had traversed a
longer road than any marked on the map of England,
and had found the end of it.


CHAPTER XXVI
THE TOMB
When Holme came to his senses and opened his eyes,
he was in darkness. He sat up and tried to collect his
thoughts. At first he could not remember what had
happened, then he recollected the long chase through
the night, the swerve of the car, the crash, and after that
nothing more.
He had a confused idea in his brain that he was still
lying where he had fallen, and that the blackness around
him was that of night, but, as his mind grew clearer, he
realised that no night was ever so dark as this.
Then the awful thought burst upon him that he had
been blinded by the accident. He felt in his pocket for
some matches, but could not find the box. Then he
touched the ground by his side. It did not feel to him
like the road. It was hard, smooth and cold like solid
rock.
It was inconceivable that he should have fallen on
such a place and escaped with his life. He could not
imagine where he had been taken to, but he guessed
that Jordison had some hand in the matter.
With the idea of blindness uppermost in his mind,
he unlaced one of his heavy nailed boots, and taking it
262


264
The Black Motor-Car
Passage:
on the stone, he moved along it, expecting every minute
to again meet some further obstacle to his progress.
But when he had walked for a few minutes he came to
the conclusion that he was in a long passage.
He quickly obtained confirmation of this, by leaving
the wall once more and crossing over to the other side,
now some ten paces distant. He resolved to explore the
passage from end to end, and continued in the same
direction.
In an hour's time he stepped into some water. He
thought at first that it might be a mere puddle, but, when
he tried to skirt it, he found that it reached to the oppo-
site wall. He placed his hand against the rock and
splashed cautiously forward. The cold water rose to
his ankles, and as he proceeded grew deeper and deeper
till it reached his knees.
Then he stopped, felt once more in his pockets for
the matches which he always carried with him, and
searched every inch of the lining carefully for a single
match, which is often to be found about the clothes of
a confirmed smoker. But he was unsuccessful.
Matches are cheap enough in England, but at that
moment he would have given half of all his worldly
goods for a single box of them. The darkness was be-
coming heavy, and suffocating like the folds of a velvet
pall. He was more hopelessly lost in it than a sailor
who tries to pick his way through an unknown and un-
lighted channel in a fog. Only the stone of the passage
and the cold water were realities.
He moved forward another few yards and the water


266
The Black Motor-Car
lowest point and that it would only fall a few inches
more. In which case there was no hope of an exit into
the open air.
He carefully felt the ground running from the water's
edge into the tunnel behind him. For three yards it was
wet, and then his fingers encountered dry rock. The
distance represented, as far as he could judge, a fall of
about six inches in the water.
It was, therefore, evident that the tide had only just
turned. With twelve or fifteen feet to fall it was possi-
ble that the mouth of the tunnel might be completely
uncovered. He stooped down and peering across the
water into the darkness, waited for some glimmer of
light, the first indication of escape from this tomb of
rock.
When he had waited an hour, shivering, hungry, and
tormented with thirst, it suddenly occurred to him that
there might be a bend in the tunnel, which would absorb
the first weak rays of the sun, filtering through a mass
of green water.
He moved several yards forward to the water's edge,
but still there was darkness. Then it occurred to him
that it might possibly be night, and that there would be
no light to guide him. He debated with himself whether
after all it would not be better to take off his clothes,
plunge boldly into the water and swim as far as the roof
of the tunnel would permit.
When another hour had passed, and still no glimmer
of light came from the black wall of darkness, he decided
to take this somewhat desperate course. He took off


The Tomb
267
all his clothes and walked into the icy water till it
reached his waist. Then he struck out boldly.
Yet, as he started, the thought came to him that Jordi-
son had brought him to this place, that Jordison had
left him unfettered and free to roam where he pleased,
and that it was hardly likely that Jordison had left him
any loophole for escape.
Holme was a powerful swimmer and he had no fears
for his own safety so long as nothing out of the way inter-
rupted his progress. But it was strange work swim-
ming there in the darkness, hearing the hollow splash
of his steady strokes, and bumping against the wet rocks
that closed him in on either side. When he had gone a
hundred yards he tried to touch the bottom, but found
that he was out of his depth.
Raising his hand above his head, he touched the roof,
and the impact sent him under for a few seconds. After
another hundred yards he again lifted his arm, but found
that the roof was no closer to him. At the end of an-
other hundred yards he could not touch it, and sinking
suddenly down reached the sand at the bottom.
Then all at once out of the darkness came a far off
gleam of light, no more than a patch of dark bluish grey
against an inky background, but still the first ray from
the outer world. He swam more quickly and power-
fully, and the water bubbled against his head as it bub-
bles at the bow of a boat.
In a few minutes' time the patch became lighter and
more definite in shape. In the joy of his discovery he
did not notice the fine network of lines that crossed it.


268
The Black Motor-Car
His head was half buried in the water, and he drove his
body forward with long powerful strokes.
Then, as he lifted his arm out of the water to make a
stroke, his fingers rapped hard against something, slid
past it to his elbow, and his whole body came crash
against a framework of iron.
He raised his other hand, and catching hold of a stout
bar, examined the obstacle which had brought his prog-
ress to such an abrupt termination. As far as he could
see in the darkness, which could only have been regarded
as twilight by one who had grown accustomed to the ab-
solute blackness of the tunnel, he was confronted by a
great screen, made of thick bars of iron, crossed at right
angles, and resembling in some measure an ancient port-
cullis.
He went over it carefully with his numbed fingers and
found that the horizontal and transverse bars were
firmly riveted together. He also discovered that it had
hinges on one side, and that on the other side it was fast-
ened to the rock by a massive chain secured with a pad-
lock. It was, in short, a gate, and its presence seemed
to imply that the passage was used as a means of egress
and ingress, and that for some reason or other the people
who used it were anxious to make their underground
residence into a fortress.
He realised now that he had found Jordison's hiding-
place, but he could not as yet see how this exit could be
of any possible use to a motor-car.
Fifty yards away from him an arch of grey showed
against the blackness of the tunnel. A single star


270
The Black Motor-Car
perstitious reverence. The rising sun, seen large through
the morning mists and almost filling the mouth of the
tunnel with its glowing sphere, seemed indeed a thing
to be worshipped and adored.
It was, however, no time for regarding the dawn in
any spirit of sentiment. Holme first turned his atten-
tion to the great iron gate now standing out firm and
definite against the light. He examined it quickly and
carefully, his eyes searching keenly for some weak spot
in chain or bar. But it was as strong as the gate of a
mediæval castle.
The bars had apparently been fastened together with
steel screws, and the heads of the screws had been cut
off. He shook the gate with all his strength, till his
whole body glowed with the exertion. The chain that
secured it to the wall gave two or three inches each way,
and the tunnel resounded with the clash and rattle of
the steel links.
But Holme saw at a glance that it would be almost
impossible to loosen or break anything. The chain
would have held a hundred-ton boat to her moorings.
The padlock was enormous, of solid steel, and fitted
with a patent lock. The staples and the hinges were ce-
mented into the rock on either side, and were as firm as
the rock itself.
Then his eyes travelled to the top of the gate. It had
been impossible to run it quite flush with the uneven
surface of the rock, but at no part was there a gap of
more than six inches in depth. The bottom of the
framework was covered with half an inch of sand.


The Tomb
273
-
his clothes, he found, to his surprise, that they had van
ished. The shilling still lay on the rock where he had
ished. Thef forgotten it. other up the passa
He moved a few yards farther up the passage, search-
ing every inch of the ground for some trace of his gar-
ments. Then suddenly a long white object shimmered
before him in the half light.
He stooped down and touched some soft material.
Then he grasped it and drew it up to him, foot by foot.
It was a large white sheet, thick and warm to the touch.
Underneath it lay a long black box. He kicked it with
his foot, and it rang out hollow. Then he examined it
closely, and gave a cry of horror as he realised the shape
of it.
It was a roughly made coffin, and the square piece of
material which he held in his hands was doubtless in-
tended as a winding-sheet.
Then he burst into a peal of laughter. He thought
that the keen wits of a sane man ought surely to prevail
over the maniac mind that had conceived so gruesome
a jest as this.
18


CHAPTER XXVII
JORDISON'S RETREAT
Holme wrapped the thick sheet twice round him, so
that the edge of it hung clear from the ground, and rent
two holes in it, through which he passed his bare arms.
It was a ridiculous and insufficient covering, but it was
warm and grateful to a man whose shivering body had
been exposed for hours to the cold air and water. Its
chief failing as a garment was its insecurity. This could
have been remedied by half a dozen safety-pins, but as
these were not forthcoming, the wearer had to hold the
folds round his body with one hand.
Thus attired, in a costume which would have been lu-
dicrous under more pleasing circumstances, Holme set
out to explore the tunnel in the other direction, and see
whether the opposite end was as completely guarded as
that which ran into the sea.
He had but small hopes for the result of his investiga-
tion. Jordison's plans for his death were quite clear to
him, and the knowledge was accentuated by the sorry
jest of the coffin and the winding-sheet. He was evi-
dently destined to perish slowly of thirst and cold and
starvation, in a tunnel of rock, securely sealed at either
end.
But the young man's spirits, which had been almost
274


Jordison's Retreat
275
extinguished by the cold water and the final barrier that
had crossed his road to freedom, were rekindled by the
comparative warmth of his covering.
The first shock of the coffin and the shroud had been
horrible, dealt, as it had been, in the semidarkness and
loneliness of the tunnel, and it had certainly been con-
ceived and carried out with the sole object of frighten-
ing the unfortunate prisoner.
But Jordison had underestimated the strength of
Holme's mind, and was ignorant of its keen sense of
humour, a sense that could extract a certain grim amuse-
ment from the most dismal circumstances.
It was undoubtedly this sense of the ridiculous that
saved the young man's mind from breaking down at this
critical moment. Where others might have only seen
the horror of the winding-sheet, he could not help won-
dering how he looked in his strange garments, and the
possible grotesqueness of his appearance appealed to his
risible faculties. As to the coffin, he was already turn-
ing over in his mind how he could make use of it to his
own advantage.
The real horror of the situation lay in the pangs of
thirst and hunger, which were now furiously attacking
his exhausted frame. There were at present no means
of combating these ferocious adversaries, and no
strength of mind could meet them with any chance of
success. Holme could fight with fear, but not with his
own physical necessities.
However, he tried to thrust aside all thought of his
sufferings, and moved swiftly away from the sea, keeping


276
The Black Motor-Car
one hand on the rocky wall beside him. As he proceeded
into the recesses of the tunnel, the twilight died away
into darkness, and a last faint patch of light, seen far off
like the gleam of a star, was finally hidden round a bend
in the passage.
He counted his steps carefully as he walked, and
tried to make every pace a yard in length. He could not
afford to neglect the smallest and least likely source of
information. When he had traversed about three miles,
as near as he could judge, his bare foot struck something
hard and there was a clink on the stone floor.
He stooped down and groped about in the darkness
till his hand encountered a small jug. He had over-
turned it, and the rock was wet with some liquid. He
dabbed his finger on the damp stone and raised it to his
mouth. Then he flung himself down and licked every
inch of the rock.
The jug had been filled with fresh water. A spoon-
ful of it had collected in a small crevice, and he tore his
tongue in his efforts to extract it. This was doubtless
another of Jordison's pleasantries.
A hundred yards farther on he stepped on some round
objects, that gave and cracked beneath his foot. He
stooped down again and thrust his fingers into a sticky
mass, full of sharp thin flakes. He tasted it, and
smacked his lips. He had crushed two or three eggs into
a pulp.
Feeling carefully around him in the darkness, he
came across a whole one. He broke off the top and
swallowed the contents. It was a strong-flavoured egg


Jordison's Retreat
277
-probably that of a wild duck, and not too fresh-but
it seemed very good to the starving man.
When he had drained it to the last drop, and sucked
the broken pieces of the shell, he scooped up all he could
get from the floor and enjoyed even that. It was no
time for nice feeding. Of a truth this Jordison was a
merry fellow and full of devices.
This scanty meal and the few drops of water he had
managed to gather from the rocky floor put fresh life
into his body, and he moved forward more rapidly.
But it seemed as if the tunnel would never cease, and it
was not till he had walked steadily for another hour and
a half that he saw the first sign of some termination to
his journey.
All at once the veil of darkness was pierced by a pin-
hole of light, a mere speck, so minute that Holme at
first thought it merely a creation of his own brain-one
of those points of light that cross a man's eye in the
darkness. But this one did not move, and the steadi-
ness of it proclaimed its reality. He did not dare hope
that it was daylight. But at least the glimmer of it of-
fered some relief from the darkness.
As he walked on, it grew larger and larger, and then
became definite in shape-a small square of yellow, like
the light of a lamp seen through a tiny window. Then
there came to his ears the distant murmur of voices, and
then to his nostrils the glorious smell of hot meat, wafted
toward him like a breath of life, sweet, luscious, and al-
luring beyond any temptation devised by Satan in this
world.


278
The Black Motor-Car
He crept nearer and nearer to the light, moving cau-
tiously so as not to attract the attention of the speakers.
The conversation grew more and more distinct, and
soon he recognised Jordison's voice.
At last he came to the end of his journey and his fin-
gers traced out a massive doorway of wood, barred and
clamped with iron. Ten feet to his right, and on a level
with his chin, there was a hole about nine inches square,
and a long shaft of yellow light streamed out from it into
the darkness of the tunnel.
Holme sidled quietly along the door till he reached
the aperture. Then he peered cautiously round the
edge of it, well aware that he was bound to be seen if
any one inside happened to be looking in that direction.
But, as luck would have it, the only two occupants of
the vast cavern that opened out before his astonished
eyes were sitting with their backs to the door. The
place that William Jordison had chosen for his subter-
ranean house was, indeed, princely in its proportions.
It was lit with a dozen oil-lamps, yet these did no more
than make the darkness visible. The roof was hidden
in a cloud of impenetrable gloom. Deep shadows lay on
distant parts of the floor.
The voices of the two men reverberated from wall to
wall of the apartment, and gave some idea of its enor-
mous size. The furniture that Jordison had brought
down with him from his residence above ground looked
as though it had been taken from a doll's house. The
carpets, eighteen and twenty feet square, spread here
and there over the floor, looked like little hearth-rugs.


Jordison's Retreat
279
The two men sitting before a large fire of crackling
logs were no bigger than the forest pygmies of Central
Africa. And over everything hung a gauzy veil of smoke
that magnified heights and distances and lent an air of
mystery to the most commonplace objects.
Over the fire hung a great steaming kettle, and to
Holme's sensitive nostrils the whole place smelt like a
kitchen. He saw at a glance that the two men were
Lipp and Jordison. Scraps of their conversation came
to his ears, and only the echo of the cavern prevented
him from hearing every word they uttered.
“E'd ought to be fast this time I reckon he's cold
-may his soul and body rot—that corfin, it makes me
laugh-we fair busted their old machine-he'll speak
now, I guess—eh? Dead? Not much. He'll take a
lot of killing—Oh, yes, she's safe enough-reckon he
ought to be turnin' up soon—lor', 'ow I shall laugh,
guv'nor," and so on and so on.
Holme listened in silence with parted lips, and his
whole body trembled with excitement. The callous cyn-
icism of Jordison, and the rough brutality of his servant
left no impression on a mind that had been hardened
by more material evils than coarse language. But he
had caught a few sentences, bearing unmistakable ref-
erence to Lady Agnes Cliffe, and he gathered that she
was still alive and confined, like himself, in the recesses
of these subterranean caves and passages.
The knowledge filled him with a twofold responsi-
bility. His own life was doubly precious, and he re-
solved to guard it carefully. For on it depended the


280
The Black Motor-Car
safety and freedom of one for whom he would have
gladly laid it down, if it had been so required.
He hesitated whether to reveal his presence or lie hid-
den till the men had disappeared and he could make
some effort to break through the door. He had as yet
formulated no clear plan of escape, even if he succeeded
in gaining an entrance into the cavern. The presence
of Lady Agnes would make matters doubly difficult, for
she, at any rate, had to be saved, even if he lost his own
life in the attempt.
The question was decided for him. Lipp made some
coarse jest about Lady Agnes, and every word came
clear to the listener's ears. Jordison laughed, and re-
plied in the same strain. In an instant Holme's blood
boiled with fury, the yellow light became a mist of
blood, and he flung all caution to the winds.
Thrusting one bare arm and clenched fist through
the opening, he yelled out the single word, “Liar,” and
the sound of it echoed and reverberated through the
cavern like the shriek of winds. Lipp and Jordison
both sprang to their feet and turned toward him. Then
seeing the bare muscular arm extended toward them,
they both laughed and came over to the door.
"Ain't 'e 'evingly?” said Lipp, with a broad grin.
“Not yet,” replied Jordison, with a quiet sneer, “but
he will be presently. At least, we hope so, if he has
lived a virtuous life-good-morning, Mr. Holme. I
trust you have had a pleasant night?”
Holme did not answer, but drew back his arm and
glared through the tiny opening in the door. He read


Jordison's Retreat
281
his fate in the two faces that grinned back at him, the
one bestial and repulsive, the other keen, gaunt and
wild, with the light of madness glinting in the dark eyes.
Jordison advanced, and struck him in the face with
his fingers.
“Get back, you dog,” he cried savagely.
Holme reeled back, smarting under the blow. But
he had made up his mind to be calm and conciliatory
for the sake of the life that was so dear to him.
“Give me food and water,” he cried, “for pity's
sake.”
“O! that's your song, is it?” Jordison replied. “It's
a tune we shall have to get accustomed to, eh, Lipp?
But we won't be too hard on him the first day, eh, Lipp?
Is the dinner ready ?"
The servant went back to the steaming pot, and,
fishing out a piece of meat, thrust it into his mouth.
“It's good,” he cried out.
“Lay the table over here,” Jordison called back;
"we don't want to seem unsociable, and tell Lady Agnes
that breakfast is ready."
Lipp brought forward a small square table, set it
down within a yard of the door, and proceeded to lay it
carefully. Then he crossed the cavern and disappeared.
In two minutes' time he returned, and Lady Agnes Cliffe
walked by his side. Her face was very white, and the
dark rings under her eyes spoke of long hours of suffer-
ing and sleepless nights. As she came into view Holme
cast one fierce hungry look at her and withdrew his face
from the opening.


282
The Black Motor-Car
Jordison and Lady Agnes took their seats at the table,
and Lipp brought forward the hot stew from the fire
and placed portions of it on their plates. He did not
sit down himself, but took a large allowance of the food
to a distant corner of the cavern.
During the meal Holme crouched silently against the
door. He listened to the clink of knives and forks, and
the hot scent of the meat was agony to the starving man.
Jordison endeavoured to lend point to the situation by
praising the victuals and making eulogistic remarks
about the wine. At the end of the meal he raised his
glass to his lips.
"A toast,” he cried suddenly: “long life to Mr. Arthur
Holme!"
Lady Agnes Cliffe flushed, but for all that she raised
her own glass to her lips and breathed a silent prayer,
and it was at that moment that she caught sight of
Holme's face at the window. He had decided to reveal
himself in case she might be able to release him from his
prison. She gave a cry of horror and started to her
feet. Jordison laughed merrily.
“Why, there is Mr. Holme,” he said, in a mocking
voice. "How well he looks, seeing that he has not had
anything to eat or drink for two days. I wish we could
have asked him to join us, but it is, I am afraid, impos-
sible. Long life to Mr. Arthur Holme!"
Then a tender and delicately nurtured girl did a
strange thing. She leant over the table and struck Jor-
dison a blow in the face with all her strength. Before
he could recover from his surprise she had plunged her



Jordison caught her wrist and pulled her back.
Page 283


CHAPTER XXVIII
JORDISON LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST
All through that day Holme crouched against the
massive door and waited to lay hold of such opportuni-
ties as chance might be pleased to throw to him. But
hour after hour passed, and not a single ray of light
broke in upon his mental darkness. His fingers went
over the door a hundred times until the position of every
nail and screw and clamp was photographed clearly in
his mind.
He measured the thickness of the wood at the opening,
and found that the door was made of two and a half
inches of solid timber. He tried to ascertain how it was
secured, but all the bolts and fastenings were on the
other side. He only gathered one thing, however, from
his investigations, namely, that it would be impossible
to break it open without tools of some sort. A file, a
chisel, a knife, even a steel nail, or a bit of broken pot-
tery would have given him a minute chance of success.
Hours of patient and undisturbed work with an in-
strument of this sort would perhaps have enabled him
to loosen the hinges in the wall, or cut through the
planks by the bolts. But he had nothing save his bare
fingers and the task was hopeless.
284


Jordison Learns the Truth at Last
285
He saw nothing more of Lady Agnes Cliffe. She
represented his only hope of escape, and it was quite
certain that the two men would not allow her the small-
est opportunity of giving him any assistance. She was
doubtless securely confined in some other part of the
cavern.
The thought of her in some measure turned Holme's
mind from his own personal suffering, but only by the
painful process of substituting mental for physical
agony. Perhaps she, too, was destined to die. Per-
haps a worse fate was in store for her. He shuddered
to think what a delicate-minded girl like Lady Agnes
Cliffe might suffer at the hands of two such brutal ruf-
fians as Lipp and Jordison.
The two men were in the cavern most of the day, but
neither of them came near him, and they removed their
table to the fireside, where they conversed in whispers.
Holme watched them feed with hungry eyes, and the
smell of their food nearly drove the starving man to
madness. They paid no attention to him, as he peered
through the little hole. They seemed to have forgotten
his existence.
The young man fully expected a further cross-exam-
ination by Jordison, and a promise of release in return
for the information Jordison desired. He had already
made up his mind to give way on this, if his submission
would insure the safety of the woman he loved. But
Jordison did not give him the chance; and as he had
decided that his confession should only be 'a last re-
source, he held his peace.


286
The Black Motor-Car
Shortly after midday, as far as he could judge in a
place where it was always night, he heard Lipp and
Jordison busily tinkering with something against the
wall in which the door was set, but he could not see
what they were doing.
An hour later a great black body slid out into the cen-
tre of the hall, and for the first time Holme had a clear
and uninterrupted view of the famous black car. Some-
thing had been wrong with it on the night of the chase,
and it was evident that Jordison was putting it in thor-
ough order. He drove it several times around the
cavern, steering with wonderful skill and accuracy.
Then he came to a stop and discussed its merits with
Lipp.
What struck Holme most forcibly about the business
was the utter contempt with which they treated him.
They were not afraid to reveal their secrets to him.
They talked loudly about the car, and Jordison laid
bare almost all the secrets of its construction.
He further disclosed how they had made use of the
passage leading to the Great East Ray quicksands,
spoke of how they had spent two months in making a
hard way over them to the shore, where a small lane
ran down to the edge of the sands, told how they had
filled up the quaking surface of the ground with rock
taken from the mouth of the tunnel, and how this hard
way, covered by the tide with sand, had escaped the
notice of the searchers.
As they conversed, Holme realised that they were
talking for his benefit. It was quite clear that they did


Jordison Learns the Truth at Last 287
not wish to conceal anything from him, equally clear
that he did not count, that he was already regarded as
a dead man. When they had finished their conversa-
tion the two men crossed the cavern and disappeared.
Toward evening Jordison came to the door and threw
two small crusts of bread through the aperture. Holme
gnawed them like a wild beast, though he knew that
they were intended only to prolong the agony of starva-
tion.
An hour later all the lights were extinguished in the
cavern, and only the red embers of the fire glowed in the
darkness. At last these died out, and Holme realised
how much the light meant to him. He even missed
the presence of his enemies, the sound of a human
voice and the sight of a human form. Anything was
better than the silence and the loneliness and the gloom
of the subterranean world.
Thoroughly exhausted in body and mind, he slept for
a few hours, and awoke once more in darkness. He had
been dreaming of the sunlight and the sea, and the white
foam before the bows of the Rover. The blackness suf-
focated him and he longed for a breath of fresh air and
a glimpse of daylight. He rose to his feet, and made his
way once more down the tunnel till he reached the
water's edge. The tide was still between the bars of
the gate. There he waited till the day broke, and the
sun streamed in upon him.
He walked back into the tunnel and began to break
the coffin into pieces. He tore off the boards one by
one and broke each of them in half under his foot.


Jordison Learns the Truth at Last 289
days, and then all at once his senses left him, and he
collapsed into a crumpled heap on the rocky floor.
Before Jordison retired to rest that night he sat alone
before the dying embers of the fire with his elbows on
his knees and his gaunt face between his hands. His
eyes glittered strangely, and his head, thrust out of the
shadow of the cavern, and illuminated by the red light,
seemed like that of some lost soul emerging from the
outer darkness into the fires of hell.
And there in the red glow of the logs he saw the record
of his own life. First, the bright flames of youth and
ambition, then the roaring furnace of love and shame
and degradation, then the steady heat of undying re-
venge, lit with a white hot flame, and now the flickering
of fires that had been nearly burnt out, and the red-hot
ashes that would soon be cold and grey.
The whole history of his life passed before his eyes,
and in the darkness of his subterranean refuge he could
not find any distraction from the memories of the past.
During the last few months the danger and excitement
of existence had allowed him but little time to think.
His mind, unhinged by suffering and resentment of the
wrongs he had endured, had found relief in wild excess
and the pursuit of an inexorable revenge.
His revenge was nearly complete. He had found
Marie de la Mothe, and he had found Arthur Sterious,
the man who had killed his son. The latter was suffer-
ing the agonies of a living death within a few yards of
him. The former was always within his reach, drag-
19


292
The Black Motor-Car
every nerve to grasp their meaning. Then suddenly he
heard a scuffle, and an arm shot out through the opening,
and thin white fingers clutched the air. He seized the
wrist and thrust it back, and he heard the heavy fall of
a body on the rock.
Then there was again silence, and then the voice
began again to speak.
"Two hundred thousand pounds!" it cried out.
“You scoundrel! A fair chance for life, eh ?-you devil,
you missed that time. Ah, we're on equal terms now.
A truce, eh? No! Well, take that and that and that.
My God, I've killed him! For heaven's sake speak,
Arthur! Speak, Sterious!" and the voice once more
died away in an inaudible whisper.
Jordison leaned against the door, and a cold sweat
broke out on his body. The dying man had called out
to Arthur Sterious, and yet— .
"Dickie's tired,” the voice went on, “and where's
mother, gone away on a visit? What do these two ugly
men want? What do the fowls say, papa ? Cluck,
cluck, cluck, and cock-a-doodle-doo. Ugh! What a
splash the body made. Good-by, Sterious, you brought
it on yourself, you know. Cluck, cluck, cluck, and
quack, quack. Oh, my God! water, water!” and the
voice rose in a shriek of agony.
But before it had died away Jordison was tearing
back the bolts and fumbling with the lock. Then he
flung the massive door back with a crash, and fetching
the lamp, leant over the form of the dying man and
peered closely into his face.


Jordison Learns the Truth at Last
293
A few moments later he had borne him into the cav-
ern and was pouring brandy and water down his throat,
and Lipp, hastily summoned from his sleep, was re-
kindling the fire and preparing some soup.
For Jordison had at last come to the full knowledge
of the awful truth, and knew that this was Richard Be-
hag, and that he had been torturing his own son to death.


CHAPTER XXIX
THE MYSTERY OF THE PAJARITO
“His life must be saved at any cost,” said Jordison,
as they tried to revive the exhausted man. “I have
made a mistake-a terrible mistake. Why the hell
doesn't that fire burn up? Pour some oil on it."
And all through that night the two men laboured with
food and hot water and brandy and warm blankets.
Lipp, understanding nothing of what was going on,
cursed incessantly, but a glance at his master's grim and
terrible face told him that he must labour till their task
was accomplished. At six o'clock in the morning Ar-
thur Holme slept, and the light of life had crept once
more into his ashen face.
Twelve hours later he woke into consciousness. His
wrists and ankles were lightly chained by pieces of rope,
for Jordison knew that if ever he was to arrive at the
truth, and conceal his own secret, he would have to play
his part up to the end. In spite of his bonds, Holme
felt warm and comfortable, and shortly after he woke,
Jordison fed him with some thick and steaming soup.
The young man took it without a word. When he had
finished he looked at Jordison with questioning eyes.
“Yes,” said Jordison sternly, "you've guessed right.
I want some information out of you, and dead men can-
294


298
The Black Motor-Car
story might disclose some fresh disgrace, some new evi-
dence of the criminal instinct that had descended from
father to son. His researches had failed to discover
anything of the sort, but there are many sins which never
come to light.
"Well,” Holme replied, after another pause, “if you
insist, I must tell you. But I cannot think of it without
shame now that my father and mother are both dead."
Again he stopped, and a look of pain crossed his face.
“Go on,” Jordison said sternly, “look on me as your
confessor. My lips are sealed.”
Holme shuddered. The reference to confession
brought the idea of death very close to him.
"It is a simple story," he said hoarsely, “and a com-
monplace story. I was young, headstrong, and pas-
sionately fond of the sea. My parents—may God rest
their souls—thought the life unfitted for a lad of promise
and intellect. My father, whose whole heart was in his
work, thought that my life should be given to the propa-
gation of Christianity in foreign parts. My heart did
not fail me at the thought of the work; in fact, its dan-
gers provided the only bright spot in the life it of-
fered.
“But-well, they say the sons of clergymen are often
inclined to be irreligious. I understand it now. The
perpetual air of piety was galling to me. I felt like the
girl behind the counter of the sweet-shop, who could not
bear the taste of a single chocolate or caramel. The life
had begun to stifle me. The air of the vicarage seemed
close, narrow, and stuffy. The good side of it became
of, who a begi My


302
The Black Motor-Car
one from me and one from his father, and that he had
on board at that minute five thousand pounds in cash
and one hundred and ninety-five thousand pounds' worth
of negotiable securities. He went on to say that he
would have taken me earlier into his confidence, but
that he had some doubts of my loyalty-I think that was
the word he used.
"I thanked him in my heart for these doubts, and I
saw at once the true reason of his friendship. I was at
the time sorry, for I had a real liking for Sterious, in
spite of all his vices. I did not then know to what
depths a desperate man can sink, though I knew a few
hours afterward.
“He went on to say that we were provisioned for a
month, and that our destination was Iquiqui. He
laboriously explained, as though defending himself, that
he had chosen this means of escape for good reasons.
He intended that the Pajarito should never be seen
again, and that we should both be accounted dead men.
“He concluded by generously offering to go halves
with me if I would assist him in his scheme. I will do
the man justice on this point. He could have made
away with me, and insured my silence effectually, but it
was not till I had driven him in a corner that he at-
tempted my life.
"He rounded off the effectiveness of his speech by
casually producing a revolver and slipping it back into
his pocket again. I was ten feet from him at the time,
or I would have tried to take it from him before we
started the discussion on the matter.


The Mystery of the Pajarito 303
“I replied, as I think most men of my stamp would
have done. I thanked him sarcastically for considering
me in the matter. I reviled him in language that only
a sailor could have conceived. I expostulated with him,
and tried to work on his better feelings as a gentleman
and the son of an honourable man. I pointed out to
him the ruin he would bring on his father's firm. I ex-
hausted every means in my power. But he was hard
as steel, and I could not even scratch the surface of his
mind. I concluded by stating emphatically that I
meant to bring the Pajarito into Valparaiso that night,
and save him from the consequences of his folly.
“We thrashed the matter out for two hours and he
backed up his arguments with his pistol. I shall not
forget those hours as long as I live. I can still see the
blue, glorious sky, the dancing waves, the white swelling
sails, the man at the stern, one hand on the tiller and one
on his revolver, and above all the deepening lines of evil
on the handsome face.
“In the end we compromised. He agreed to let me
drop out of the business. He said he would put me
ashore at a small village fifty miles north of Valparaiso,
a place outside all railways and telegraph wires, and
that he would go through the affair by himself. I swore
to use no force to turn him from his purpose, and we re-
sumed our relations as fellow-yachtsmen on a boat that
required the attention of both of us.
“After lunch I felt drowsy and fell asleep. When I
woke up I was lying on the deck with my face to the sky,
and I was bound hand and foot. Sterious was at the


The Mystery of the Pajarito
305
the chance in the spirit in which it was offered. He was
at least as much of a sportsman as the man who fights
a partridge with a double-barrelled gun.
“He loosed my hands and sprang back to the tiller.
I unfastened the rest of the ropes myself, and took cover
behind the mast. He fired once and splintered the
wood by my face. But before he could fire again the
wind suddenly shifted, and the boat gybed. He hauled
at the main sheet with one hand, but was too late. The
boom came flying across, and he had only just time to
duck his head. The heavy spar caught his hand and
sent the revolver spinning into the water. We were
once more on equal terms.
“I suggested a truce, but he would have none of it,
and wrenching out the iron tiller from the rudder, he
came at me. As luck would have it, the spare tiller,
which was larger than the one in ordinary use, and re-
served for dirty weather, lay up against the fore comb-
ings. Before he could reach me I was ready to meet
him.
“Every detail of that fight, which lasted for over ten
minutes, is still vivid in my mind. I will only tell you,
however, that in the end I broke through his guard with
a terrific blow, and the square end of my tiller crashed
into his skull. He died without a sound or a word.
“At first I resolved to return to Valparaiso and tell
the whole story to the authorities. But on second
thoughts I saw the inherent improbability of the tale.
It would certainly have been believed, as, indeed, your
detective gathered from the police, that we had both
20


CHAPTER XXX
“VENGEANCE IS MINE"
"I only ask two things of you,” said Jordison, "and
then you shall both go free.”
He was standing by the iron gate at the end of the
tunnel. Arthur Holme and Lady Agnes Cliffe both
faced him. Their wrists were still bound, but their
faces glowed with the light of a great joy. They had
been very near to death, but now life, and all that life
meant to them, was within their grasp. Suddenly, and
for no apparent reason, the man who had held them in
his cruel grip had bid them both go free.
The night was over and the day was at hand. The
sun itself, now rising from the east and turning the wide
expanse of wet sand into a glory of gold, was not so re-
splendent as the light of freedom that had suddenly
flashed up from the dark horizon of pain and death.
“I only ask two things of you,” repeated Jordison,
“but you must swear on the holy cross that you will do
them. In the first place, you must both swear never to
reveal, either directly or indirectly, this hiding-place of
mine, nor give any assistance, either direct or indirect,
to those who desire to capture me.”
"I will swear that,” replied Holme sternly, “though
God knows what evil I shall do the community.”
308


“Vengeance Is Mine”
309
Lady Agnes murmured some words to the same effect,
and Jordison produced a small bone cross.
“This cross,” he said, “was found in these caverns,
in the bony fingers of a man who perhaps died for his
faith in the time of the Romans. It is, without doubt,
a most holy and sacred relic. You will each swear the
oaths I desire by your God and the hope of your future
salvation, and you will each kiss this symbol of your
faith to seal the words you have spoken."
Holme swore the desired oath and kissed the little
cross. Then Lady Agnes did the same, repeating the
words in a faint and faltering voice, and shuddering as
her lips touched the bone symbol of early Christianity.
“Now," continued Jordison, "you must each swear
to me a separate oath. You, Arthur Holme, must
swear that you will tell Lady Agnes Cliffe the true story
of your life, and that you will marry her before a year
has passed. You, Lady Agnes Cliffe, must swear that
you will marry the man you love in spite of all opposi-
tion on the part of your parents. There is nothing dis-
graceful in his past history. He is a true and sterling
man. I have done him a great wrong, and I intend to
repair it. Do you both agree to swear these oaths ?"
The two young people looked at each other in be-
wilderment. They could hardly believe their ears.
Jordison had attempted both their lives, and now, as
an alternative to death, he asked them to swear to fulfil
the dearest wish of their hearts. They could under-
stand the necessity of the first oath, but the second was
incomprehensible.


310
The Black Motor-Car
“Why?" began Holme in a stammering voice.
"Don't ask any questions,” broke in Jordison sav-
agely and abruptly, "for I shan't answer them. Will
you swear?"
"I will, so help me God," Holme said fervently, "if
Lady Agnes ” and he stopped and looked inquir-
ingly at the woman he loved.
“Yes, Arthur," she said faintly. Her white face
flushed with crimson, and there was a tender light in her
eyes.
They both swore the oath, and once more they kissed
the cross.
“The hardway goes round to the back of the island,”
said Jordison. “Keep close to the land until you come
to a white piece of rock. Then strike across the sand
in a straight line between the white rock and a black
post on the shore beyond the salt marsh. You will then
find a road and have no difficulty in reaching home.
Be sure and keep the straight line between the points I
have named. On either side of you lies an enemy that
will not be as merciful to you as William Jordison.”
With these words Jordison took out a knife and cut
their bonds and they were free. Without another word
he unlocked the iron gate, and swinging it back on its
hinges, stood aside to let them pass. They went out
together without a word.
Jordison watched their figures disappear round the
end of the tunnel. He closed the gate with a crash and
locked it. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and
picking up a lamp from the ground, retraced his steps


312
The Black Motor-Car
every now and then a sudden sinking of the wheel
warned the driver that he had run over the edge of the
track. They then glided up a gentle slope, passed over
the edge of the bank which kept the tide out of the low
lying land, and went slowly westward over the marshes.
The road was execrable. It was little more than a
grass track, and the stones that had originally formed
its foundation protruded through the thin layer of soil.
It ran parallel to the road leading to the Red House
some eight miles north of it, and joined the old Roman
causeway.
It had been originally constructed to bring up sand
and shingle from the beach, but had not been used for
many years. Where it joined the causeway it had sunk
several inches, and was submerged for ten yards in a
shallow lake of water. On either side of it lay many
miles of desolate marsh-land.
When the motor-car reached the main road Jordison
turned to the left and went southward. Lipp pointed
out in picturesque language that this was not the way
to Liverpool.
“I am aware of that, Lipp,” Jordison replied grimly.
“I have to call at Heatherstone Hall first.”
Lipp pointed out the risk and broke into a torrent of
oaths at Jordison's foolhardiness. But the latter inti-
mated that his servant could leave the car then and
there if he liked, and Lipp relapsed into sullen silence.
Shortly after eleven o'clock the car glided under the
shadows of the overhanging trees in the park. Jordi-
son alighted and told Lipp to keep his eyes and ears


“ Vengeance Is Mine"
313
open. If any one discovered the car he was to run
straight back to the cavern. He, Jordison, would un-
derstand what had happened, and could make his way
to their hiding-place on foot.
When he had given these final instructions he climbed
over the wall and made his way through the plantation
into the park. His gaunt face looked horrible in the
moonlight. The loss of his beard and moustache laid
bare all the evil lines of his features. The head of a
vulture peering round for the dead carcass of man or
beast was not more loathly to look upon.
And Jordison's errand that night was death. He had
resolved to kill Marie de la Mothe before he left Eng-
land. Then, at last, his lifework would be accom-
plished. He had found his son and provided for the
young man's future happiness. It only remained to
pay the debt he owed to the woman who had made
him the thing he was.
His unbalanced mind, no longer able to distinguish
between right and wrong, saw no evil in the thing he
was about to do. The cold blooded murder of a de-
fenceless woman had assumed the appearance of a
splendid act of justice.
Jordison compared himself to an executioner who
carries out the sentence of the law. No criminal, he
argued to himself, was more worthy of death than this
woman. She had taken no life, but she had ruined that
which was more precious than mere physical existence
—the soul of a man who might have done much good,
but who had sunk lower than the beasts that perish.


CHAPTER XXXI
THE LAST RIDE
When Jordison, white-faced and panting, reached
the edge of the plantation, he paused and listened. He
heard the sound of a voice sharp, querulous, and in-
sistent. He could not catch the words, but he could
distinguish Lipp's growl in reply. Then he heard two
other voices, stern and deep-toned, and then a reply
that was unmistakable—the report of a revolver. Then
the sound of three shots fired almost simultaneously;
and then a loud cry, and two voices talking together in
low tones.
Jordison crept softly through the copse to the wall on
his hands and knees, and pulled out his revolver.
“You cursed fool!” he heard a voice say, "you've
jacked up the whole concern now. Yes, he's dead
enough, but it's only the servant. The other is bound
to have heard the firing and cleared off. Poor old
Saunders! He's done for."
“Stop your jaw, Williams, and get our car out of
sight. We'll have "
A thin tongue of fire spat out from Jordison's revol-
ver, and the man lurched forward to the ground. His
companion turned, fired, and hit the stone coping by
Jordison's head. Before he could fire again, two bul-
318


The Last Ride
319
lets were in his body and he reeled over onto the
road.
Jordison looked sharply round to see if any more men
were concealed in the shadow under the trees. He
could distinguish nothing in the darkness, but he argued
that they would all have emerged onto the road after the
first mêlée with Lipp, and climbed swiftly over the wall.
A large motor-car stood in the middle of the road and
three bodies lay in various attitudes on the ground. He
cast a hasty glance at them and turned his attention to
Lipp. His servant had fallen forward over the steering-
wheel. His face was red with blood and he was quite
dead. Jordison lifted the limp figure to the ground,
and for one brief moment a pang of sorrow touched his
hard heart. This fellow, vile and brutal as he was, had
been a faithful servant, even to the end.
But it was no time for sentiment. Jordison, remem-
bering the hidden jewels, stripped the coat off the dead
man and flung it into the bottom of the car. Then he
took his seat, started the engines, gripped the steering-
wheel that was wet with blood, and pulled the lever.
The car glided out of the shadow of the trees, made a
half-circle and moved northward along the Roman
causeway, gathering speed with every mile it went.
When it ran inland from the Essex marshes, it was
travelling at ninety miles an hour.
The driver's white stern face was bent forward and
his eyes never left the road before him for the thou-
sandth part of a second. Jordison realised that he must
get within walking distance of Liverpool that night.


320
The Black Motor-Car
He was afraid to take the simpler form of locomotion
that the railway offered. He guessed that every station
was watched. He knew that, after the disappearance
of Arthur Holme and Lady Agnes Cliffe, hue and cry
would be raised over the whole of England, and that
every county would again blossom forth in amateur
detectives and ardent motorists pursuing each other
persistently. It was clear, too, that men were abroad
that night who meant business. The four dead bodies
at the foot of Heatherstone Park testified to that much,
at any rate. Jordison knew that his only hope of escape
lay in the darkness. He could slip past his pursuers
under cover of the night, but with the rising of the sun
he would have to abandon the car, and take to some less
conspicuous means of progress. Whatever happened
he had to reach Liverpool that night.
He slipped through Essex into Hertfordshire, and it
was not till he reached the smooth slopes by Royston
that any further incident occurred. Here a large white
car dashed suddenly out of a bye-road, missed his hind
wheels by a foot, and tore madly after him up a long,
gentle incline. To use a colloquial but expressive
phrase, he “left it standing," but he did not get away
before its occupants, three Cambridge undergraduates,
had examined him thoroughly in the light of their
lamps. Twenty-five minutes later the white car spun
into Cambridge, woke up the police and the telegraph
office, and the news began to flash through the length
and breadth of England that William Jordison was
tearing northward under cover of the night.


The Last Ride
323
stant turning and twisting began to so confuse his sense
of locality that he had more than once to consult a small
compass.
It was not, however, till he was on the borders of
Shropshire that he encountered the racing-car which
was destined to play so memorable a part in the events
of that night. It came on him suddenly at right angles,
as he was running at half speed over the join of four
cross-roads. To avoid a collision he was forced to
wrench his car round to the left and run westward. The
driver of the grey car, which was running at full speed,
jammed on his brakes and swerved to the right to avoid
a collision. As it was, he ran level with Jordison's car
for fifty yards. There were three people in the car and
they yelled out to Jordison to stop. But before they
could recover the pace they had lost by putting on the
brakes, he had worked his engines almost up to the top
speed and had shot ahead of them.
Jules Simon, the driver of the grey car, had just come
from the great speed trials at Manchester, and in his
pocket reposed the gold medal he had wrested from
some of the finest cars in England. His machine was
own sister to the one Lord Harry Quy had purchased,
and in the hands of a driver who had few equals either
in England or the Continent it had performed won-
ders. With a flying start it had covered the mile in
thirty-three seconds, and in a subsequent test had been
the first car in the world to run a hundred miles in the
hour. On his way back to London, Jules Simon had
received the news about Jordison at Whitchurch, and,


324
The Black Motor-Car
rousing a local gunmaker from his sleep, had purchased
a revolver and a box of fifty cartridges before proceeding
on his way southward. As Jordison shot forward into
the darkness two bullets sang past him, very wide of
their mark, but an unpleasant reminder that he might
be the victim of a chance shot from an unskilled hand.
He shouted at them derisively, but could not reply in
their own fashion. Both his hands were required for
the steering wheel, and he could not take his eyes from
the white strip of ground that unwound itself into the
darkness.
Jordison cursed the ill-luck that had driven him out
of his course, but he had resolved to take the first turn-
ing to the right and work his way back to the north.
He had no doubt when he passed the other car that he
would soon leave it so far behind that he could safely
slacken speed before turning a corner. But in this par-
ticular case Jordison had reckoned without his host.
Five minutes after he had passed his pursuers, he cast
a hasty glance backward and saw the light of the other
car a bare half-mile behind him. In a flash he realised
that this only meant the difference between two cars of al-
most equal speed, one of which had been obliged to work
up its pace after a liberal use of the brakes. He realised,
too, that the distance between them, at the pace at
which both were travelling, represented a bare fifteen
seconds of time, and that any diminution of speed on
his part would probably bring the other car crashing
into him before he could round a corner. And even if
this were not so, he saw that his pursuers would be able



Drive as he would- he could not shake them off.
Page 325





The Last Ride
325
to keep so close to him that he would in all likelihood
be unable to get clear away from them. This would
effectually prevent him from abandoning the car before
he reached Liverpool, and, if he encountered another
trap on the road, would mean an encounter from which
he would probably be unable to escape with his life.
The question of petrol had also to be considered. He
had run now two hundred and fifty miles, and another
four hundred would exhaust his supply. He had counted
on being able, in case of absolute necessity, to break
open some petrol store and get as much as he wanted.
This would be impossible now that all the countryside
was up in arms against him, and doubly impossible with
a fast racing-car clinging to his heels.
Jordison at last realised that fortune was against him,
and he decided to run back to his hiding-place and trust
to having better luck another night. He gradually
worked his way round to the southeast, and, leaving
Shrewsbury on his left, ran down into Worcestershire,
crossed the Severn, put his car at the great slopes of the
Cotswold Hills, and spun over this wide tableland till
be shot down into the green valley of the Thames.
By the time he had left Woodstock on his right, his
pursuers were quite two miles behind him. Every now
and then, at the end of some long, straight stretch of
road or on the slopes of some hill, he caught a glimpse
of their lamps. Drive as he would—and he drove like
a maniac that night-he could not shake them off, but
he was slowly wresting the ground from them, foot by
foot, and he calculated that, by the time he reached


•
327
The Last Ride
vibrated beneath him was more a thing of life than the
man who steered it on its course. His thoughts were
neither of the past nor future; neither of the dead
woman nor of a living son; neither of misery nor happi-
ness; neither of fear nor love nor hate. They were
only occupied and centred on one thing—the road with
its white surface, its blurred hedges, and its sign-posts
flashing up mile after mile and directing him on his way.
As he passed to the north of Aylesbury the wind rose,
and driving sheets of rain beat into his face and blurred
his sight, and turned the clean road into a stream of soft
mud. The sign-posts became illegible, and he steered
like a sailor by the compass, running due east and hop-
ing to strike the Essex road at some point where his local
knowledge would be of service to him. The lights of
the grey car had vanished altogether in the blinding
curtain of rain, and he knew that his own lamps would
be invisible. There was no longer any danger of being
overtaken, but there was every prospect of his not find-
ing the old Roman causeway.
The southeasterly wind increased in violence until it
became a gale. The rain did not cease, but was driven
against him like points of steel. The great car hissed
through the storm with a resistless force, but its speed
was materially reduced. The roadway flew up from
the wheels in streams and fountains of mud. Jordison,
grim and immovable, was drenched as though he had
just emerged from the sea.
At last, though he knew it not, he crossed the borders
of Hertfordshire and rushed into Essex. He could not


328
The Black Motor-Car
see more than fifty yards in front of him. He only
knew that he was still going into the east. Upward
slopes, downward grades, flat stretches of level road,
conveyed nothing to his mind. His sense of locality
was gone; the east, the sea-line was his only boundary.
When he reached it, fortune alone would take him north
or south to his destination.
Then at last the boundary came out at him like a
flash out of the darkness. There was a sudden rough-
ening of the road, the crunch of shingle and clatter of
stones, and he brought his car to a dead stop. Looking
round he could see nothing but stones and sand with a
patch of sea-lavender and a glistening curtain of water
that streamed like a silvery waterfall from the dark
heavens above.


330
The Black Motor-Car
the meagre information at his disposal. He made up
his mind to work his way slowly inland until he reached
some sign-post or some point from which he could trace
his way to the Roman road. He drew out a piece of
bread from under the seat and devoured it eagerly, like
a wolf tearing at a lump of flesh. Then he drank a
quarter of a pint of neat brandy, lit a pipe and resumed
his seat in the car.
Scarcely, however, had he buttoned the leather rug
over his knees when his ears caught a new sound from
out of the night—the faint beat and throb of engines in
the distance, only distinguishable from the roar of the
wind by the regular rhythm which gradually increased
in volume and distinctness. He turned round and saw
two faint specks of light through the driving rain. And
even as he looked, they increased in size. Quick as
thought he pulled up a chain beneath his feet and
started his engines. It was a moment in which a mat-
ter of life and death had to be decided in a few seconds
of time. Behind him lay a closed road, before him the
sand and the sea. A man's mind moves quickly in mo-
ments like these.
First he thought it would be best to turn round, and
drive straight at them. If they moved aside, he escaped.
If they stood in his path, they died or were broken-and
he too would either be killed outright or so horribly
maimed that he could not escape. Then he thought
that he would abandon the car, and slink away into the
marshes under cover of the night, trusting to good-for-
tune to make the Triplets at the next tide. Both these


The Road on the Sands
331
plans were cast aside as soon as they were formed. The
first, because it would be next to impossible to turn his
car and get any speed on his engines before the other car
was upon him; and the second, because he would have
to abandon his ultimate means of reaching some large
port, from which he could elude the vigilance of the
police and escape from the country.
There was only one third course open to him, and he
took it. He pulled the lever and the great car crashed
and rattled down the shingle toward the sea. Here, at
any rate, his pursuers might well hesitate to follow.
Few men care to make their way over the Essex flats
after dark on foot. No one but a man who cared noth-
ing for his life would rush on to their treacherous sur-
face in a heavy motor-car.
He ground through the rattling shingle and heard the
soft squelch of mud beneath his wheels. Before he had
run one hundred yards toward the sea, the cry of voices
rose above the storm, and, looking back, he saw the
yellow eyes of the pursuing car glaring at him from the
bank of shingle. A second later three bullets sang over
his head. He had no time to reply, but moved his lever
on to the next speed, and, as he did so, a thin switch rose
up wet and glistening on his right, and vanished into the
darkness.
He turned his car round and made for it, and before
he reached it the wheels rolled up from the soft slime
onto a hard jolting surface, and another switch gleamed
in the light of his lamps. And then at last he realised
where he was.


332
The Black Motor-Car
For eight miles along the coast of Essex and at a dis-
tance of some two hundred yards from the shore, there
runs a hardway of firm sand, strengthened and com-
pacted by thousands of tons of ballast. Every half-mile
or so a similar track runs off at right angles to it and
joins some road on the land. The island, which it skirts,
used at one time to depend almost entirely for its means
of communication on this veritable sea road. The scat-
tered hamlets, dotted here and there along its coast, were
so cut off from each other by creeks and inlets that they
found this the simplest method of overcoming their dif-
ficulties. The hardway was marked out by slender
switches planted in the sand. It had been little used
since the introduction of new roads and bridges on the
island itself, but occasionally a cart toiled along its
dreary surface, or some belated fisherman, stranded on
the sands, which run out here nearly six miles at low
tide, crawled homeward along it, a mere black speck of
a man with his face ever turned toward the grey line of
sea. For the path had claimed many victims in its time.
Some had been washed away by the encroaching tide;
others, less fortunate, had splashed shoreward through
the rising waters and been sucked down into the sands
that never gave up their dead.
Jordison was in that mood which risks everything on
the single cast of a die, and, besides, a cornered man can-
not be overcareful in his methods. The southerly end
of the hardway lay within two miles of his hiding-place.
If he could reach the end of it in safety, it would be easy
work to go inland and make his way round to the road


The Road on the Sands
333
which ran down to his own path across the sands. It
was more than an even chance that his pursuers would
not care to follow him to the end. They were strangers
to the district and knew nothing of the road. The fear
of the sea would be in their minds, and the treacherous
sands on either side of them would soon tell them of the
terrible doom that lurked in the darkness. They had
little to gain and much to lose. Jordison on the other
hand had nothing to lose and much to gain. He guided
his motor onto the hardway and ran southward at twenty
miles an hour.
It was a hideous night, drenched with rain and icy
with the nor'easter that had risen into a gale. On the
flat sand, with no shelter to east or west, Jordison felt
the full fury of the storm. It beat down on him with a
hiss of wind and waters. It seemed as though heaven
itself was crashing down from the sky above and
trying to beat the life out of him. On either side
the dun sands faded away into the darkness. Switches
flashed up and disappeared. More than once the
car lurched over as a wheel sank into the soft, cruel
bed that watched and waited for a man's life. But
the powerful car broke from the fetters before they
became too strong, and hurled itself back onto safe
ground.
At the end of five minutes Jordison looked back.
Not a light was to be seen. He was alone in the dark-
ness. The occupants of the other car had either been
afraid to follow him or else were some way behind in
the chase. It was even possible that they had run off


The Road on the Sands
335
He stopped the car and examined them. The carbide
was exhausted into a mere heap of grey dust. He had
no more on the car. A single oil-lamp, a mere candle
after the white glare of the Bleriot lights, was all that he
had left to guide him through the perils of that road
across the sands.
He started once more on his journey, but slowly, as one
who feels his way in the darkness. And, as he moved
forward, Fear once again crept softly into the car and
sat by his side. The shadows of the sands seemed to
be gathering more deeply around him. The glare of
the acetylene had been dimmed into the feeble yellow
light of the oil-lamp. And the strong spirit that had
burned within Jordison's iron frame died down into
a flickering flame. The man's nerve was gone. He
had been strung up to concert pitch, and the cord had
snapped. Dangers which he would have laughed at a
couple of hours before, loomed gigantic upon him out
of the darkness.
The wide flats stretching eastward and the lonely
marshes that bounded the quicksands to the west were
thickly peopled for him that night. The ghosts of the
dead that the sea had given to the shore, and the dead
that the sands would never disgorge till the day of judg-
ment, moaned and gibbered at him through the storm.
Marie de la Mothe floated white and still from the web
of rain, and he could smell the scent of hothouse flowers.
His wife crouched by a dripping switch to his left.
Jermy and Susanson crawled along by the wheels.
Lipp, with a sullen scowl, sat by his side, and his pres-


236
The Black Motor-Car
ence was cold as the nor'easter that beat across from the
sea. The black heavens moved with countless whirling
images, and uncouth faces and arms were thrust up
from the yellow sands to mock at him.
In the dim light and in the tumult of his disordered
brain, Jordison passed one of the bye-paths to the shore;
and before he reached the next he heard a new sound
among the voices of the night, the low splash of water,
a feeble sound compared to the whistling and shrieking
of the gale, but insistent and continuous—the first faint
pulsing of the mighty ocean, the tip of the forefinger of a
resistless arm.
A few seconds later a smooth, thin fold of water was
flung across the path, and the wheels sent up a tiny
spurt of spray. Jordison awoke from the terrors of his
overwrought brain to the real danger that faced him.
He cast a hurried glance at his watch and realised in a
flash that he had miscalculated the tide by at least half
an hour, and that the nor'easter, which was heaping up
the waters on the land, had magnified this error into one
of serious importance.
He quickened his pace so as to gain the next turning
while there was still some chance of following out the
road. The thin film of water, harmless in itself, was
yet enough to blur sand and causeway into an indistin-
guishable plain of sea. As the car shot forward, tiny
waves began to ripple across its path, and the wheels
churned them into white foam and a continuous shower
of spray.
The tide runs up the North Ray flats with incredible







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1974