With good chiselled1 features and a beautiful pink and white complexion2, she had large, clear blue eyes and the glorious, burnished3 copper4 hair of a Raphael-painted angel. She was of medium height and her figure was graceful5 and well-proportioned.
Ordinarily of a rather imperious expression, just now she looked annoyed as well, and she tapped impatiently with her foot every time she glanced at the watch upon her wrist.
“Seven minutes late, already,” she murmured, “and he told me to be sure and be there on time.”
Suddenly then, she saw a smartly dressed youngish looking man enter the lounge at the far end and turn his head interestedly around. His glance fell upon her, and immediately he began to thread his way through the chairs in her direction.
“But that can’t be he,” she thought instantly. “That man is much too young and not a bit like a detective. He looks educated.”
But the young man approached unhesitatingly, and then with a bow and a pleasant smile, pulled a chair up close and sat down beside her.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, speaking in low and modulated6 tones, “but there was a little bother in getting a place for my car. Still, I’m only eight minutes behind. It hasn’t struck six yet.”
Her heart beat unpleasantly, and with a little catch in her breath, she regarded him without speaking. He was alert and intelligent-looking, with keen blue eyes and a good chin. He smiled as if he were amused.
“Oh! it’s quite all right,” he said. “I’m Mr. Larose.”
She spoke7 at last, and holding herself in, asked coldly, “And how am I to know that!”
He laughed lightly. “Well, you left the Abbey at five minutes to five; you motored here alone; your carburettor needs adjusting, and that”— he pointed8 to a roll of brown paper in her lap —“is the plan of the Abbey that I asked you to bring with you. Also”— and he took a letter from his pocket —“this is the introduction from Mr. Naughton Jones.”
She frowned. “And in that case,” she said quickly, “I must tell you that I am rather troubled, for I believe I have been followed here. There was a car behind me all the way, and it made its pace to mine. When I slowed down, it slowed down, too, and when I accelerated ——”
“That’s quite all right,” he interrupted. “You needn’t worry there. It was I who was behind you. I wanted to make sure you were not going to be followed, and so drove over to the Abbey this afternoon and waited among that clump9 of trees, just as you turn into the road, to see you come out.” He shook his head. “But it was unwise of you to come alone, for they are just as likely to try to get hold of you.”
Lady Ardane flushed. She was annoyed at having expressed any anxiety, and yet at the same time comforted at this proof of the thoroughness of the man who had been sent to help her.
“I am sorry that I made you uneasy,” smiled Larose, “and I kept a long way behind, hoping that you would not notice me.” He saw her embarrassment11 and went on, “But that carburettor of yours certainly wants adjusting, for as you slowed down, coming out of the Abbey ground, you were back-firing badly.”
“Yes,” she nodded, with an effort to appear unconcerned. “I saw my engine was running hot.”
He looked up at the clock. “Well, what about going in to dinner? I’m hungry and we can talk better there. I have booked two seats in a corner, where we shall not be overheard.”
She shook her head coldly. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I want to get back as soon as possible. I’m not interested in meals in these times and I’m not at all hungry.”
“Nonsense,” said Larose. “I saw you getting a piece of chocolate out of the automatic machine just now, and besides, I can’t think properly if I’m not fed.” He laughed. “We can both pay expenses for ourselves, or else I’ll pay and put it down in the expenses. So, you’ll be under no obligation to me, either way.”
She hesitated a moment, and then rising reluctantly from her chair, preceded him into the dining room.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked, when they were seated at the far end of the long room. “It’s my birthday today, and I’m 29, so I feel inclined to celebrate it.”
“Anything will do for me,” she replied, all at once becoming most annoyed that she was going to dine tete-a-tete with a detective from Scotland Yard. She ought to have persisted in her refusal, she told herself, and would let him see most plainly that she was in no way interested in any of his conversation, except that strictly12 appertaining to the matter that had brought them together.
But she had been really hungry, and the dinner being a good one, under the mellowing13 influences of the food and wine, she soon found herself unable to keep up the haughty14 attitude she had decided15 upon.
The detective had at once assumed the role of host, and critical as she was, she had to admit that he filled it very well.
He was quite easy and natural, and in his manner there was nothing lacking in what she was accustomed to in her own circle. Apart from that, indeed, he was far more interesting and entertaining than most people she was usually brought in contact with. He was entirely16 unassuming, too, and with all his obviously would-be friendliness17, there was not the slightest familiarity about him, and if she saw, as she did, that from time to time he was appearing to be taking her in admiringly, there was yet evidently no intention on his part that he wanted her to be aware of it.
He talked of books and plays, of race meetings and the places he had visited in England; he told her about Australia, and the differing conditions of life and climate there, and altogether she soon realised she was far from finding his company disagreeable.
He seemed just a light-hearted and easy-going young fellow, with no cares or troubles at all.
But the instant the waiter had served the coffee and left them, his whole manner changed. His face hardened his chin seemed to become firmer an his eyes lost their smiling look.
“Now, Lady Ardane,” he said sharply, “we’ll talk business, and please only answer my questions, for you must be starting for home in half an hour. I shall return with you, and come back by the late train from Burnham Market. No, I insist upon that, and you must, please, bow to my judgment18. It was foolish of you to come here quite alone, for with all your courage you are a woman, and also, incidentally would be quite as valuable a hostage as your child.”
“But I could not have brought an army,” she retorted, “and against a gang, surely one companion would have been of no use at all.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” he replied, “for they might hesitate about murder, with you as an eye witness. Well,” he went on quickly, “about these kidnappers19, I take it the only motive20 for them wanting to get your child can be that of ransom21? You have no enemies, and it is not a question of revenge? Oh! none that you know of, and no one would benefit either by the death of your son. Yes, Mr. Jones told me the baronetcy would die out then. Now, how did Sir Charles leave his money?”
She looked annoyed at this line of questioning, and hesitated, but after a moment replied coldly.
“Equally between me and my son, his portion being, of course, held in trust until he comes of age.”
“And the estate was a large one?”
She nodded. “I am quite well to do.”
“I only asked that,” said Larose, “to assure myself that the ransom they are after may be large enough to induce them to persevere22, for you see a number of men with cars and a motor yacht require some financing.” He shook his head. “The man behind all this must have ample means at his command.” He looked sharply at her. “Now, another question, please, it is three years since you lost your husband is it not!” He spoke in cold, level tones. “Well, in your circumstances I expect you have had suitors since?”
Lady Ardane’s eyes flashed. “Because of my money, you mean?” she asked sharply.
“Not necessarily,” replied the detective, repressing a smile, “but you have had them, of course.”
“Plenty,” she replied laconically23, then she added, “but I have no intention of remarrying, and all my friends know it.”
“Then is it not possible,” suggested Larose, “that in rejecting the advance of some one of these suitors, you may have incurred24 his enmity?”
Her eyes flashed again. “Not for a moment,” she replied. She tilted25 her chin disdainfully. “My friends are gentlemen, Mr. Larose.”
The detective ignored the rebuff as if he were quite unaware26 one had been intended. “Now to another side of the matter,” he said, “and although I am quite sure Mr. Jones will have gone over the ground here, still I must satisfy myself upon one or two points.” He regarded her intently, making a mental note how pretty she looked when she was angry, and spoke very slowly. “Now, after you had told the head nurse when the child was with you that night, that she should take him upon the sands on the morrow, I understand she is certain she made no mention of the matter to any one until she was in the act of getting into bed, and then she told the other nurse. That is so?”
Lady Ardane nodded, and the detective went on. “And both nurses are sure it was not referred to again until the maid was clearing away the nursery breakfast, which would be about half past eight.”
Lady Ardane nodded again. “And the girl who cleared the breakfast away,” she added, “is positive she did not speak about it to anyone until she went down into the servants’ hall for morning lunch, which would make it about half past ten. She was busy with her rooms, upstairs, and would have had no opportunity of speaking to anyone until then.”
“And where were you that evening when the child was bidding you good night?” asked the detective.
“Where I generally am, for a few minutes, every evening about that time,” she replied, “in my writing room, a little boudoir that leads out of my bedroom. I attend to any private letters then that have come in the late afternoon post-bag, and need answering by the mail that night.”
“Could your instructions to the nurse by any possibility have been over-heard?”
“Most improbable, for the door would almost certainly have been shut, and the window is eighteen to twenty feet above the ground.”
“And about the bringing of those riflemen from Hunstanton,” asked Larose, “when did you decide upon that?”
“About half past ten the next morning.”
“Did you discuss the matter with anyone?”
“Yes, I was in the library, with my father, Senator Harvey, Sir Parry Bardell, a great friend of mine who lives near the Abbey and is the cotrustee with me of the Ardane Estate, and Admiral Charters, another old friend. Then I sent for my head chauffeur27, the one who was with the car that afternoon upon the sands, and he was back before noon, with everything arranged.”
“And where were you when he told you what he had done?”
“In my boudoir again, with my secretary, Miss Wingrove.”
A short silence followed and then Larose went on. “And I understand from Mr. Jones that since this trouble began every telephone call has been checked at the exchange, and every one satisfactorily accounted for. There is no possible chance then that whoever is acting28 as the spy inside the Abbey can have passed on his information through that channel.”
“No, we can be quite certain of that,” replied Lady Ardane.
“And I see from these notes Mr. Jones has given me, that as a Mr. Ernest Maxwell, the friend of your cousin, I have come from Australia, and am supposed to have made a fortune in sheep out there.” He smiled. “Very nice, if it were only true.”
He folded up the notes, and placing them in his pocket, became very stern again.
“Now, Lady Ardane,” he said solemnly, “it is evident that we are up against very determined29 men. But as we have seen, they will resort to any means to obtain their ends. The sanctity of life is apparently30 nothing to them, and they will take any act of violence in their stride, as a matter of course. Unhappily, too, up to now they have been in a position to forestall31 every move that you have made to protect yourself.” He nodded emphatically. “Well, we are going to stop all that, and now I am going to be an unknown force working against them, in exactly the same way as they have been an unknown force working against you.”
He broke off suddenly and said, “I am taking it for granted, as Mr. Jones told me, that no one in the Abbey knows that I am coming down.”
“No one,” she replied quickly. “Not even my father, Senator Harvey, who is upon a visit to me, and who is very prejudiced against calling in the official police, nor my aunt, who lives with me. No reference has been made to your coming at any time except when Mr. Jones and I were discussing the matter in the garden.”
The detective nodded. “Good!” he said, “then from the moment when I set foot in the Abbey you will forget that I am a detective, and regard me only as one of your guests. We must never be seen holding a private conversation together.”
“Now,” he went on, “you give me three minutes, and I’ll leave the hotel first. Then you call for your car, and pick me up by the cathedral. I shall be just outside the main entrance.”
They parted in the lounge, but a few minutes later were seated, side by side, and speeding swiftly along the road towards Burnham Norton. It was a fine night and there was a good moon.
“We need not worry about anything until we have passed Fakenham,” said the detective, “and after that, if you don’t mind, I’ll take the wheel.”
They drove on in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Larose inhaled32 the delicate perfume that emanated33 from her hair and sighed softly. It was so incongruous, he thought, this dainty and beautiful woman and the evil forces he was there to combat.
A short distance from Fakenham, he said, “Now, please.”
Lady Ardane slowed down and the exchange of seats was effected. “But I don’t consider it necessary,” she said coldly, “nor either, as I have told you, that you need have put yourself out to come with me.”
The detective did not argue the point. “Well, you look out of the window at the back,” he said most politely, “and take particular notice as we pass the by-roads to see if any car is parked up there.”
Lady Ardane made no comment, contenting herself with a disdainful smile, but if it had been in her nature to ever feel sulky, she would have felt so then. However, she twisted her head round and did as she had been requested.
Nothing then happened for a few miles, and she was upon the point of remarking to the detective how unreasonably34 apprehensive35 he had been, when, just as they had passed a field bordered by a thick hedge, she saw a light waved three or four times and with no delay, but with some reluctance36, she informed the detective.
“But it’s gone now,” she added quickly, “and perhaps it was only a farm light.”
“And perhaps it was not,” snapped Larose. “At any rate, I’m taking no chances to-night,” and so approaching a bend in the road before them, he immediately slowed down to a little above walking pace. Then suddenly he began to tug37 fiercely at the steering38 wheel.
“Hold steady,” he called out sharply, “I’m going to turn. There’s a car half blocking the road in front, and it looks as if two men are stretching a rope across.”
Then things happened very quickly, for he had hardly turned the car round and straightened up, when a man carrying a hurricane lantern came bursting through the hedge about fifty yards in front of them, and springing over the ditch, jumped on to the road. Instantly then the detective accelerated, and drove straight at him. For a couple of seconds or so, it seemed that the car would hit him, but he tumbled back into the ditch just in time, and they could hear him swearing and shouting furiously as they passed.
“But you didn’t intend to purposely run him down?” gasped39 Lady Ardane.
“Certainly I did,” replied the detective. “Didn’t you see what he had got in his other hand? Ah! here it comes,” and they heard three sharp reports, and a bullet pinged somewhere on the back of the car.
“We’ll go back to Fakenham,” called out Larose, “and I’ll ——”
“No, no,” interrupted Lady Ardane quickly, “there’s a lane just past these trees, and we can turn into that and escape. We are not three miles from the Abbey now.”
They turned where she indicated and speeded along the high-hedged lane as quickly as the car would go, but very soon Lady Ardane, looking back through the window, called out with a quiver in her voice, “They’re coming after us, they’re not far behind.”
“Well, they won’t catch us at the rate we’re going now,” called back Larose. “We must be very nearly at the Abbey.”
But all at once the engine began to run unevenly40 and the car to jump and lose pace.
“Damn!” swore Larose. “She’s misfiring. We’ve got a dirty plug.” His voice rose sharply. “Quick! tell me how far they are away.”
“Three hundred yards at the most,” replied Lady Ardane, steadying her voice with an effort, “and they’re getting much nearer.”
The detective was quite cool and collected. “I’m going to slow down,” he said, “and you must take the wheel. Don’t get flurried, and we’ll give them a surprise.”
He almost stopped to allow her to slip into the driving seat, and then, a moment afterwards, came the crash of breaking glass.
“Sorry,” he called out, “but that was me. I had to break the window to use my gun. Now go for all you’re worth up that hill.”
A few seconds passed and then, just as they were topping the rise of a small hill, for the second time that night a bullet impinged upon the back of the car.
“It’s quite all right,” said Larose calmly. “No harm’s done and our turn’s coming now. Slow down, please, for I must catch them as they come over the hill. I don’t want to be too far away. Now, steady. Here they are.”
Crack — crack — crack, and three bullets sped through the little window.
“Ah!” shouted Larose exultingly41, “I got one of their tyres and they’ve turned into the ditch. Gad42! but they almost went over. Yes, they’re finished with, and you’ll get home this time. Now, quick, go as fast as you can.”
He dropped back into the seat beside her and went on cheerfully, “Quite a nice little scrap43, and it’ll make them more careful in future.” He looked intently at her. “But I hope you weren’t very frightened.”
“I was — dreadfully,” she faltered44, “but not as much as I should have been if I’d had anyone but you with me. Mr. Naughton Jones told me you would shoot your best friend if you thought it necessary.”
“Exactly,” laughed Larose, “but only if I thought it necessary.” He became serious again. “But now just go about half a mile and then pull up and drop me. I’ll hop10 back and if I’m quick I may get a look at them and see what make their car is, and get the number. I don’t suppose the car’ll be much damaged, for that ditch wasn’t more than a couple of feet down and the hedge would act as a buffer45, but still it will take a few minutes to get it out and change the tyre and I’ll ——”
Lady Ardane was aghast. “But you’re not going back,” she cried. “Why, they’ll kill you.”
Larose laughed. “I’ll take care of that,” he said. “They won’t see me.” He went on quickly. “Now the instant you get home ring up the Fakenham police and tell them part of what’s happened. Just say an attempt was made to waylay46 you and that you were fired upon. Don’t mention anything about me and don’t say I fired back. Tell them exactly where the car went into the ditch.” He shook his head. “I don’t think there’s the ghost of a chance of them getting here in time, but still we must try it. Ah! here we are at your corner and now you’ll be quite safe. Pull up, please.”
They had come out of the lane and through two fences on either side of a narrow road were turning into a wide expanse of meadow-land, with the beautiful outlines of Carmel Abbey about half a mile away, silhouetted47 against the moonlit sky.
Lady Ardane brought the car to a standstill. “But I don’t like your going back,” she said breathlessly. “I think it very foolish.”
“Oh! I shall be quite all right,” said Larose. “Now how far do you think it is to where we left them? About a mile or a little more? Well, goodnight, until tomorrow. I must run.”
He had gone a few steps when she called out quickly. “Wait, Mr. Larose, I want to speak to you,” and when he turned with a frown, she pointed to a shed under some trees, about a hundred yards away. “If you must go,” she went on, “there’s a bicycle in that shed, belonging to one of the gardeners, and you can borrow it. The door will be locked, but the key is generally left under one of the big stones that you’ll see outside.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed the detective. “Thank you very much. Now you get home and ring up, quickly. Goodnight.”
She drove off and he ran over to the shed she had indicated. He found the key under one of the stones and was quickly inside. He was just wheeling the bicycle out, when, noticing a couple of jackets and some very dirty overalls48 hanging upon the wall, an idea struck him.
“Good!” he ejaculated, “better and better, and I shall be able to play the exact part. If they’re still there, I’ll go up and have a little talk.”
He took off his jacket and slipped on one of the overalls, then, with a grimace49, he put on one of the ragged50 coats and also changed his neat brown shoes for a pair of very clumsy boots.
“Awkward to bicycle in,” he remarked, “but still it’s not for a great distance.” He took off his wrist watch and put it in his pocket. “Not nine o’clock yet, and I shall have plenty of time to get back and catch the 10.45 at Burnham Market,”— he smiled to himself —“that is if I come back at all, and if I don’t,”— he sighed —“well, nothing will matter, as far as I am concerned.”
Mounting his bicycle, he shot like an arrow into the road, but he had not gone a couple of hundred yards before he almost ran over a small dog that was chasing a rabbit. The dog caught the rabbit and then immediately a lad of fifteen or sixteen, who was carrying more rabbits over his shoulder, dashed through the hedge. The boy almost dropped in dismay when be caught sight of the detective, and for the moment seemed as if he were going to bolt.
But Larose jumped off his bicycle and stood before him. “Hulloa!” he said. “What’s this! Poaching, eh?”
The boy looked very scared, and receiving no reply, the detective went on, “Never mind. I won’t squeal51. How many have you got?”
“Foive,” replied the boy in great relief at the friendly tones.
“Well, give me a couple and here’s a tanner for you.” With no demur52 the boy at once complied and the sixpence was passed over in exchange.
“Now cut away quick,” said Larose, and with the scampering53 off of the young poacher, he stuffed one rabbit in each of the capacious pockets of his ragged coat, and mounting the bicycle, pedalled swiftly on again.
“Very nice,” he chuckled54, “and now I shall be quite above suspicion.”
In a few minutes his heart began to beat a little quickly, when turning a bend in the lane, the car that he was looking for came suddenly into view. It was about 300 yards away and, no longer in the ditch, it stood now in the middle of the lane with all its lights extinguished. Two men were kneeling by one of the front wheels and he could hear a sound of hammering. One of the men was holding an electric torch.
“Changing the tyre!” he whispered. “Then I must hurry or they’ll be getting off.”
Jumping from the machine, he quickly soiled over his hands and face from the ditch-side and then riding on for another 150 yards, dismounted again at the foot of a small hill and began pushing his bicycle slowly before him.
The hammering still continued, and approaching nearer to the car, he was so taken up with trying to see all that was going on that he did not hear a man push through the hedge behind and pad softly after him.
Suddenly then he found himself gripped tightly by the back of the neck and a stern voice demanded. “Now then, what are you doing here?” and at the same time he felt something very like the muzzle55 of a pistol, poked56 into the small of his back.
He swore under his breath at his carelessness, and shivered in real earnest. But he did not lose his wits and made no attempt to struggle.
“All right, sir,” he called out in frightened tones, “I’ll go quietly. Who are you? Mr. Thomson?”
The grip upon his neck was let go, and turning shakily he found himself gazing into the cold eyes of a very determined-looking man of big build and with a very square jaw57. The man was holding one hand behind his back.
“Who are you?” snarled58 the man, “and who’s Mr. Thomson?”
“I’m Mat Capper, sir,” whined59 Larose, “and I thought you were the constable60, Mr. Thomson.”
“Well, what are you doing here,” went on the man, “and what are you sneaking61 along like that for?”
“I wasn’t sneaking along, sir,” replied Larose, “and I was just walking up the hill because I’m short of breath. I’ve been very ill lately.”
The man eyed him doubtfully. “Well, you must stand where you are,” he said gruffly. “Not a movement and don’t you turn your head. Perfectly62 still, you understand,” and he made a long, low whistle in a peculiar63 manner.
The detective felt a most unpleasant tightness in his chest. “He’s got a gun in his hand, right enough,” he thought ruefully, “and my conscience, if they search me and find mine!”
For a few moments, then, the two stood facing one another and a cloud starting to cross the moon, the man stretched out and grasped the detective by the arm, with the evident intention of making sure that he should not bolt away in the darkness.
The sound of hammering still came from the direction of the car.
Then the detective heard quick footsteps behind him and a second man came running up and flashed the rays of an electric torch full upon his face completely blinding him with the glare.
“What is it?” asked the newcomer in a low fierce whisper. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know,” replied the square jawed64 man quietly, “but we’d better make darned sure and find out.”
“Who are you?” came the whispering voice, and the detective thought it sounded like the hiss65 of a snake.
“Mat Capper, sir,” replied the detective once again. “I’m a farm hand and I work for Mr. Andrews, at Willow66 Bend.”
“Where’s that?” asked the whisperer, and certainly with no friendliness in his tones.
“At North Barsham, sir. About three miles from here.”
“And what are you doing at this time of night?”
The detective hesitated and made his breathing appear quick and jerky, then he blurted67 out, “Only after a rabbit or two, sir,” and in proof of his statement he pulled out the rabbits he had thrust in his pockets, and held them up for inspection68.
Both men immediately touched them. “Yes, they’re warm,” said the one holding the torch, very slowly, and as if weighing up everything in his mind. Then, after a moment’s silence, he went on sharply, but still in a very low tone. “A farm laborer69 are you? Show me your hands.” Then his arm darted70 out and he seized the detective in a grip of iron. “Damnation! you scoundrel!” he swore, “those are not the hands of a farm laborer. You’re lying to us. You’re ——”
But the detective broke in with a sharp cry. “No, no, sir,” he gasped. “I’m only speaking the truth. I tell you I’ve just come out of hospital. I’ve had my lungs bad for three months and have done no work. That’s why my hands are so smooth.” He almost wept. “I’m an honest chap, sir, except for these rabbits.”
At this display of such obvious fright, the rage of the man with the torch appeared all suddenly to die down, but he did not relax his grip and the detective realised quite well that he was still in great danger. A pistol was pointed, not ten inches from his heart and he had even heard the slipping back of the safety catch. He knew they were desperate men that he was interfering71 with, and from their actions that night, violence of every form was undoubtedly72 no stranger to them.
A sweat burst out upon his forehead.
His interrogator73, who appeared to be the leader, was evidently of two minds. “A farm hand, you say you are,” he said at length, very softly and then with all his quietness, he rapped out a question like a bullet from a gun. “How long then does a sow carry her young?”
“Sixteen weeks, sir,” replied Larose, making his legs even more shaky than they were.
“And a sheep?”
“Five months, sir. Five months and three days.”
For a long minute the man stood motionless as if still unconvinced and then suddenly he let go the detective’s arm and pushed him roughly away. “Get,” he said, “and go back the way you’ve come. No, leave your bicycle here. We’ll take care of that. I dare say it’s been stolen, like the rabbits. Now, get quick, and don’t you dare to look round, or else ——” He turned to his companion. “Follow him and put a bullet in him if he does.”
With a great thankfulness in his heart and yet furious that he had not been able to approach near enough to discern either the make or the number of the car, Larose made every appearance of going off with as much haste as possible. The moon was now clear again and with all his courage he dared not look round, not knowing if there were anyone just behind him.
Then all at once he heard the car being started up, and from the sounds that followed he knew that it was being backed and turned. Risking everything, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following him, he was alone in the lane, and in the distance the car was just moving off in the direction of the main road.
“And I don’t even know what make it is,” he exclaimed, “nor which way it is going, or how many men are in it. So any ringing up Fakenham will have been quite useless, for we can’t identify the car.”
He retraced74 his footsteps in the hope that after all they might not have gone off with his bicycle, and found, as he had half-expected, that it had been left behind. It had, however, been thrown into the ditch and not only that, but all the wind had been let out of the tyres.
“The beasts!” he ejaculated, “and there’s no pump on it!” Pushing it before him, he walked disgustedly back to the Abbey grounds, and regaining75 the shed without encountering anybody, changed into his own clothes. Then, with plenty of time to spare, he made for Burnham Market, and catching76 the 10.45 train, was in Norwich again before midnight.
The following morning, as he was not due to arrive at the Abbey until the late afternoon, he spent some time in the public library, reading up from a local Guide Book all he could about Carmel Abbey.
Amongst other things he learnt that Sir Charles Ardane had bought it about ten years previously77 and apparently much regret had been expressed at the time that he had turned it into a private residence.
However, apparently, as little interference as possible had been made with the outside appearance of the Abbey, the general scheme of the rebuilding having been to erect78 a modern residence within the old walls. A very large sum was supposed to have been expended79 upon the restoration, and the building now contained an enormous number of rooms.
About eleven o’clock he paid a friendly visit to the Superintendent80 of the Norwich police, with whom he had a slight acquaintanceship, and informed him that he was on holiday and motoring round the eastern counties.
They talked of matters in general for a few minutes and then the detective asked casually81, “And how’s business? Anything doing?”
“Not too brisk,” replied the Superintendent with a smile. “Just jogging along with an occasional murder or burglary every now and then to liven us up”— he sighed —“but mostly drunks and petty larcenies82.” He shook his head frowningly. “Ah! but we had a rather disquieting83 call last night.” He looked very impressive. “One of our county notabilities, a pretty society woman, phoned up that an attempt had been made to waylay her when she was returning home in her car and that she had actually been fired upon, on the high road.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Larose, “was it a fact?”
“Yes,” said, the Superintendent gravely, “the Fakenham men report there are certainly two marks upon the chassis84 of her car that look like bullet ones”— he screwed up his eyes —“and there are other disturbing features as well about the case.”
“Tell me about it,” said Larose. “The wickedness of this world is always more interesting than the good.”
“Well, what happened was this,” said the Superintendent, “Lady Ardane, of Carmel Abbey”— he broke off —“have you ever heard of her?”
“Oh! yes,” replied Larose, “very beautiful and very rich; the widow of Sir Charles Ardane. I’ve seen her at Ascot.”
“That’s she,” nodded the Superintendent, “a lovely woman, with red hair. Well, last night at half-past eight or thereabouts, when about a mile and a half from the Abbey, a man in another car shouted to her to stop, and when she took no notice of him, he set off after her and fired two shots with the evident intention of puncturing85 her tyres. Then something happened to his car and it ran into a ditch and she got away. Immediately then, when she reached home, she attempted to ring up and report to us what had happened, but found to her consternation86 that she could not get the exchange. She kept on ringing, she says, for quite five minutes and then realised that something must be wrong, sent round to the garage and one of the chauffeurs87 dashed into Burnham Market, the nearest town. The police there at once got in touch with Fakenham, and two men immediately went out to where she said the car was ditched.” He shrugged88 his shoulders. “But what was the good of it? It was nearly ten o’clock by then and of course, the car had gone.”
“Was it only one man who was after her?” asked Larose innocently, and desirious of getting the Superintendent to talk as much as possible.
The Superintendent looked very disgusted. “She doesn’t know,” he replied. “She knows nothing, neither the appearance nor the number of her pursuers, what they wanted, nor what the car was like, and all we know is that her car was undoubtedly hit twice and that the wires of the Abbey telephone were deliberately89 cut”— he shrugged his shoulders again — “Heaven alone knows why.”
“The wires cut!” exclaimed Larose in startled surprise. “The telephone wires cut at the Abbey!”
“Yes,” replied the Superintendent, “and just outside the main door, too.” He shook his head. “Really, it’s very strange, and if we could be certain there was any connection between the two happenings I should not be too easy in my mind.” He frowned uneasily. “In any case, I tell you I don’t like the idea of gun-men in my district.”
They chatted on for a few minutes and then the detective left the police station, like the Superintendent, very disturbed and uneasy in his mind.
“Whew!” he whistled when he was out in the street, “but I’m certainly up against something very hot here, and there’s no doubt about a confederate being inside the Abbey.” He looked very grave. “Someone must be watching her every minute. She was marked down directly she left home; arrangements were then made to get hold of her as she returned, and the wires were cut, so that in the event of the kidnapping being successful, as long a time as possible should elapse before her absence could be notified to the police.” He whistled again. “Yes, I shall have to be darned careful what I am about.”
Larose had still an hour to spare before lunch, and annoyed in some way by the memory of the immaculate appearance of Paris Lestrange, he visited a couple of hosiery shops, and among other items purchased some quite unnecessary and very expensive silk ties.
“He looked at me like some strange animal,” he thought angrily, “and so I’ll let him see I can dress quite as well as he, with all his aristocratic and wealthy surroundings.”
Passing a jeweller’s shop, he stopped idly to look at the many attractive things displayed in the window, and his eyes happened to fall upon a large gold cigarette case, reposing90 upon a cushion of white silk. The case was beautifully chased and jewelled in one corner.
“Better than that one of Lestrange’s,” he murmured, “and would cost a lot of money.”
For a few moments he could not take his eyes off it, and then suddenly an idea striking him, he grinned, and proceeded to walk briskly into the shop to ascertain91 the price.
“Seventy-five pounds,” said the Jeweller, scenting92 a good customer, and all smiles. “It’s a lovely piece of work,” and he at once went to the window and took it out.
The detective handled it admiringly. “But ￡75,” he remarked, “is a lot of money!” Then he said hesitatingly. “Now, if I take it and bring it back any time within a month, will you return me the money, less, say, 10 per cent?”
The jeweller hesitated. “You want to hire it?” he asked.
“No, not necessarily,” replied Larose. “I like it very much now, but I may get tired of it, and then it would be a lot of money to have thrown away.”
The jeweller hesitated in his turn. “Yes, sir,” he said at last, “you can take it on those terms, but, of course, it must be returned to me in the same condition in which it is now.”
“All right,” said Larose. “I understand that. But,” he went on, “I’m a stranger to Norwich, and am only passing through, so, of course, I’m not carrying that amount of money on me”— the jeweller’s amiable93 expression at once vanished and was replaced by a stern frown, “but if I write you a cheque, and bring a responsible person in to guarantee it, I suppose that will be all right?”
“A responsible person,” replied the jeweller with a pronounced emphasis upon the adjective.
“Good,” said the detective, “then I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Returning quickly to the police station, he sought out the Superintendent and told him what he wanted.
“Certainly,” replied the Superintendent at once, “I’ll give him my cheque and take yours in exchange.” He smiled slyly. “You’re going to buy an engagement ring, of course”— he sighed —“and I only wish I were young myself, and going through it all again.”
He accompanied Larose to the jeweller’s, and the latter upon seeing him was at once all smiles and amiability94 again. Cheques were exchanged and the cigarette case made over, but the Superintendent professed95 great disappointment that the purchase was not an engagement ring.
“Gosh!” he exclaimed, when they were out of the shop, “but nobody would take you for a detective with that cigarette case.”
“No,” laughed Larose, shaking hands in parting, “and that’s just what I want. Good-bye.”
By two o’clock he had finished his luncheon96 and was sitting in the lounge of the hotel awaiting the coming of the barrister. Tired of watching the people continually passing through, he presently picked up one of the London morning papers, and began idly to scan down its pages.
Suddenly then his attention was arrested upon a name in the social column, and with astonished eyes he read:—
“We regret to learn that the well known private Investigator97, Mr. Naughton Jones, has been suddenly taken ill and removed to a nursing home.”
“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, “and won’t old Jones be furious if he sees this. It looks as if those wretches98 had got to learn of it, and out of bravado99 given the paper the tip to make inquiries100.”
He returned to the hotel to await the coming of the barrister, but the latter did not put in an appearance until nearly four o’clock, and then made no apology for the tardiness101 of his arrival.
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1
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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2
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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3
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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12
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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15
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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16
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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17
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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18
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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kidnappers
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| n.拐子，绑匪( kidnapper的名词复数 ) | |
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20
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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21
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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22
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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25
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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27
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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28
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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30
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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31
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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32
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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34
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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35
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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36
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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37
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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38
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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39
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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40
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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41
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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42
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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43
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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44
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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45
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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46
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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47
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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48
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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49
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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50
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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51
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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52
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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53
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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54
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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56
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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57
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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58
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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59
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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60
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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61
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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62
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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64
jawed
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| adj.有颌的有颚的 | |
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65
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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66
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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67
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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69
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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70
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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71
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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72
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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73
interrogator
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| n.讯问者；审问者；质问者；询问器 | |
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74
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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75
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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76
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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77
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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78
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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79
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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80
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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81
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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82
larcenies
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| n.盗窃（罪）( larceny的名词复数 ) | |
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83
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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84
chassis
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| n.汽车等之底盘；（飞机的）起落架；炮底架 | |
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85
puncturing
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的现在分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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86
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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87
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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88
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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90
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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91
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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92
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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93
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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94
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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95
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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96
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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97
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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98
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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99
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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100
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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101
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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