Kate plus 10
lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down
the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking
tunnel.
He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from
Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he
preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven
going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable
walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been
sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep
hole beyond.
He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and
examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust.
Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a
magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red
surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red
of rust.
He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he
found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was
a little red spot. It was no larger than a three-penny piece and it
was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden
sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on
the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.
For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by
builders.
He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the
hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of
green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age.
Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was
green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of
peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence
which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid
green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were
undoubtedly crystals.
“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even
if Fonso isn’t.”
The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially
created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on
the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without
securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the
surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing
coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away,
but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to
blacken.
“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and
the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway
officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”
As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after
it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their
responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when
he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there
were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath.
He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite
side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line
twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned
the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently
excavated in the course of the working.
Behind this was another chalk hole, and he gathered from an
examination of the map, that along this further ridge ran a road. The
abandoned cement works had been so built that they were not in view
from the railway itself. Possibly the philanthropic purchaser had
pulled down the one remaining smokestack on his occupation and the
whitened buildings did not stand out against the chalky soil behind
them. He had all the evidence he wanted before he had traversed
one-half of the two miles which separated him from the chalk pits.
The mark of the heavy wheels was visible now. In places the weeds
which grew thickly between the sleepers had been crushed by their
passage. He now left the rail and began moving round in a wide
semi-circle that would bring him to a low neck in the hill. His plan
was to climb the hill from here and work his way back along its crest
until he overlooked the works. He was now in the danger zone.
He shifted his stick to his left hand and slipped out his pistol and
pulled back the cover. It took him an hour to gain the crest of the
neck. He found it more difficult to climb than he had thought.
Evidently chalk had been quarried here and, save in one or two places,
he was faced by a sheer unscalable wall. It was hard climbing all the
way and he was hot and thirsty by the time he reached the top.
From the neck he could only secure a partial view of the works. He had
taken the precaution to bring a pair of prismatic glasses and with
these he surveyed the ground. There was no sign of the train and for a
moment his heart sank. Then he picked up the rail and followed it yard
by yard and he could scarcely restrain himself from a yell of joy when
he saw the rail led to a big shed, the gates of which were closed.
Originally, this may have been the mill house, but the new tenants had
relaid the line so that it passed into the building. He replaced his
glasses and continued his climb. He was half-way between the neck and
the point which would directly overlook the works when he heard the
hum of a motor car and dropped flat. He was within fifty yards of the
road which was slightly above him, and looking up very cautiously he
saw a car dash past and disappear over the rise.
There was no mistaking its occupant. It was the Spaniard, Gregori.
He rose cautiously and continued his progress, keeping a sharp
look-out for the sentries which he knew would be posted on the road.
The path he followed was a beaten track. He realized this before he
had gone much farther and sought to find a way either to the left or
the right, but without success.
He halted and debated with himself the question as to whether he
should go back. It was madness to attempt to make the capture alone.
Even now, he might have been detected, but if this was the case by the
time he went back and procured assistance the whole gang would have
gone and probably the gold with them. Of the two risks he decided to
take the first.
Little time was given to him to regret this decision. He had taken
three paces when he heard the unmistakable whirr of a lariat. He
turned to face the danger, pistol in hand, but too late. The rope
settled about his neck, he felt a sharp nerve-racking jar and fell
heavily to the ground.
CHAPTER XV.
AS SIR RALPH SAID, “BUSINESS IS BUSINESS”
T.B. Smith walked into his outer office.
“Any news of Mr. Pretherston?” he asked.
“No, sir,” was the reply.
“Any news of Barr?”
“No, sir.”
T.B. clicked his lips impatiently.
“Who’s looking after them?”
“Detective-sergeant Grey, sir,” was the reply. “You know we traced him
as far as Pinham Heights. After that he seems to have been lost sight
of.”
“Have you notified the chief constables of Hampshire, Sussex and
Surrey?” asked T.B.
“That has been done, sir,” said the officer. “The local constabulary
are making a search.”
T.B. bit his lips.
“I can understand Mr. Pretherston going,” he said, “but what has
happened to Barr?”
His subordinate very wisely offered no solution.
There were other anxious enquirers. Moya Felton had called that
morning. Sir Ralph had made two visits to headquarters though it was
doubtful whether his anxiety was in any way associated with the well
being of Michael Pretherston.
“I think Michael will find the gang,” said T.B., “though he may be too
late to get the gold.”
“What do I want the gang for?” demanded Sir Ralph wrathfully. “Will
the government give me £2,800,000 for them? The gang can go to the
devil so far as I am concerned. I want the gold.”
“You may get neither,” said T.B.; “at any rate, it ought to be very
pleasing to you, Sir Ralph, that Michael Pretherston is risking his
life to recover your property.”
“Isn’t he paid to do it?” demanded Sir Ralph. “Isn’t that the job of a
policeman? By Gad! Commissioner, one would imagine that Pretherston
was doing something out of the common! I take risks every day of my
life.”
“If you could see my mind,” said T.B. Smith suavely, “you would
realize that you are taking the biggest risk you have taken to-day. I
advise you to go home and get into a calmer frame of mind.”
“When shall I hear anything?” asked the truculent baronet.
“Whenever you are within earshot,” snapped the Commissioner. “Show Sir
Ralph out, constable.”
Lord Flanborough did not obtrude his enquiries. He was so far
reconciled to Moya that he could discuss the matter dispassionately,
without reference to the _mésalliance_ which threatened his family.
“I think on the whole, Moya,” he said, “I had better not see Ralph.
After all, business is business and friends are friends; but I
disclaim all responsibility for that gold after it left the ship. It
is Ralph’s business entirely and I simply won’t accept his suggestion
that I share his responsibility to the slightest degree.”
“Will he have to bear the loss?”
“Well, partially bear the loss. A portion will be borne by the
underwriters. Ralph, I am afraid, is a very mean man. I hate saying
anything about my friends but Ralph is really economical to a point of
meanness. I advised him to insure the gold and, to save a beggarly
premium, he only insured half of it. I am very sorry for him,” he
shook his head mournfully as a symbol of his sympathy. “I am very,
very sorry for him, but I think it is better that we do not meet until
this business matter is completely settled. On the whole,” he added
thoughtfully, “perhaps it is better that your engagement with Ralph is
broken off. He has said some very unkind things about you, Moya, which
aroused my anger. I do not think you have been wise but I cannot allow
any person to discuss you uncharitably.”
If the truth be told, Sir Ralph had said very little about the girl
and very much about his lordship, whom he had accused of deliberately
evading his responsibilities. This was at the one interview which they
had had. It pleased Lord Flanborough to pose as a devoted father, but
he did not deceive anybody but himself, for Moya had had a first hand
account of the interview from Ralph who had asked her to use her
influence to bring about a change in Lord Flanborough’s attitude.
It was the day after the disappearance of Michael Pretherston and Sir
Ralph’s nerves were a little shaky. It was unfortunate in the
circumstances that he had decided that afternoon to make a call upon
the man who, a week before, he had fondly believed was to be his
father-in-law. Lord Flanborough had not taken the precaution of
warning his servants that he was not at home to Sir Ralph, so he had
nobody to blame but himself when the door of his study was flung
violently open that afternoon and Ralph Sapson stalked in.
“My dear Sapson,” stammered his lordship, flabbergasted by the
unexpectedness of the visit. “Pray, do sit down.”
“I am not going to sit down. I tell you I am not going to sit down,”
roared, rather than said, Ralph.
“Let me close the door,” said his lordship in alarm. “My dear man,
please remember--”
“I remember nothing except that I am on the brink of ruin. That is
what it means. I am on the brink of ruin,” said Ralph, violently
thumping the desk. “It is going to cost me a million and a half, and
you must bear your share, Flanborough! You are responsible. If it had
not been for your infernal daughter this would not have occurred.”
“My daughter,” said Lord Flanborough and feeling himself on perfectly
safe ground he could speak with hauteur, “is not a matter for