bearin’ left, would bring you to the Monks’ Arms, one of the oldest pubs in Essex. Since the by-pass was made I don’t know what trade is done there. It’s kept by an old prize fighter, a Jerseyman, or claims to be; Jim Pallant they call him—a mighty tough customer; Seaman Pallant was his fightin’ name. The revenue officers have been watchin’ him for years, but he’s too clever for ‘em. We’ve checked up on him, of course. He seems to have a clean slate in this business . . .”
Visualising the map, I decided that the route back via the Monks’ Arms was no longer than the other, and I determined to revive my drooping spirits before facing Nayland Smith. Licensed hours did not apply in my case for I was a “bonafide traveller” within the meaning of the act.
I set out on my return journey.
At one time I thought I had lost my way again, until presently through the gloom I saw a signboard projecting above a hedge, and found myself before one of those timbered hostelries of which once there were so many in their neighborhood, but of which few remain today! I saw that the Monks’ Arms stood on the bank of a stream.
I stepped into a stuffy bar. Low, age-blackened beams supported the ceiling; there were some prints of dogs and prize fighters; a full- rigged ship in a glass case. The place might have stood there when all but unbroken forest covered Essex. As a matter of fact though not so old as this, part of it actually dated back to the time of Henry VII.
There was no one in the barroom, dimly lighted by two paper-shaded lamps. In the bar I saw bottle-laden shelves, rows of mugs, beer engines. Beyond was an opening in which hung a curtain composed of strings of colored rushes. Since no one appeared I banged upon the counter. This produced a sound of footsteps; the rush curtain was parted, and Pallant, the landlord, came out.
* * *
He was as fine a specimen of a retired prize fighter as one could hope to find, with short thick nose, slightly out of true, deep-set eyes and several battle scars. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed muscular forearms and he had all the appearance of being, as Constable Weldon had said, “A tough customer.”
I called for a double scotch and soda.
“Traveller?”
“Yes. London.”
He stared at me with his curiously unblinking deep-set brown eyes, then turned, tipped out two measures from an inverted bottle, squirted soda into the glass and set it before me. I paid, and he banged down my change on the counter. A cigarette drooping from his thick underlip he stood, arms folded, just in front of the rush curtain, watching me with that unmoving stare. I sipped my drink, and:
“Weather bad for trade?” I suggested.
He nodded but did not speak.
“I found you almost by accident. Lost my way. How far is it to the station?”
“What station?”
This was rather a poser, but:
“The nearest, of course,” I replied.
“Mile and a half, straight along the lane from my door.”
“Thanks.” I glanced at my watch. “What time does the next train leave?”
“Where for?”
“London.”
“Six-eleven.”
I lingered over my drink and knocking out my pipe began to refill it. The unmoving stare of those wicked little eyes was vaguely disconcerting, and as I stood there stuffing tobacco into the hot bowl, a possible explanation occurred to me: Perhaps Pallant mistook me for a revenue officer!
“Is the fishing good about here?” I asked.
“No.”
“You don’t cater for fishermen then?”
“I don’t.”
Then with a final penetrating stare he turned, swept the rush curtain aside and went out. I heard his curiously light retreating footsteps.
As I had paid for my drink he evidently took it for granted that I should depart now, and clearly was not interested in the possibility that I might order another. However, I sat for a while on a stool, lighted my pipe and finished my whisky and soda at leisure. A moment later no doubt I should have left, but a slight, a very slight movement beyond the curtain drew my glance in that direction.
Through the strings of rushes, almost invisible, except that dim light from the bar shone upon her eyes, I saw a girl watching me. Nor was it humanly possible to mistake those eyes!
The formidable Jim Pallant was forgotten—everything was forgotten. Raising a flap in one end of the counter I stepped into the bar, crossed it and just as she turned to run along a narrow passage beyond, threw my arms around Ardatha!
“Let me go!” She struggled violently. “Let me go! I warned you, and you are mad—mad, to come here. For God’s sake if you value your life, or mine, let me go!”
But I pulled her through the curtain into the dingy bar and held her firmly.
“Ardatha!” I spoke in a guarded, low voice. “God knows why you can’t see what it means to be mixed up with these people, but I can, and I can’t bear it. Listen! You have nothing, nothing in the world to fear. Come away! My friend who is in charge of the case will absolutely guarantee your safety. But please, please, come away with me now!”
She wore a silk pullover, riding breeches and the muddy boots which I remembered. Her slender body writhed in my grasp with all the agility of a captured eel.
One swift upward glance she gave me, a glance I was to remember many, many times, waking and sleeping. Then with a sudden unexpected movement she buried her wicked little teeth in my hand!
Pained and startled I momentarily released her. The reed curtain crackled as she turned and ran. I heard her pattering footsteps on an uncarpeted stair.
Clenching my fist I stood there undetermined what to do—until, realizing that an uncommonly dangerous man for whom I might not prove to be a match was somewhere in the house, for once I chose discretion.
I was crossing to the barroom door when, heralded only by a crash of the curtain and a dull thud, Pallant vaulted
“I know your sort!” he growled in my ear. “Anyone that tries games with my guests goes the same way!”
“Don’t be a fool!” I cried angrily as he hustled me out of the building. “I have met her before—”
“Well—she don’t want to meet you again, and she ain’t likely to!”
Down the three worn steps he ran me, and across the misty courtyard to the gate. He was heavier and undoubtedly more powerful than I, and ignominiously I was rushed into the lane.
“I’ve broke a man’s neck for less,” Pallant remarked.
I said nothing. The tone was very menacing.
“For two pins,” he continued, “I’d chuck you in the river.”
However, the gateway reached, he suddenly released his hold. Seizing me from behind by both shoulders, he gave me a shove which sent me reeling for three or four yards.
“Get to hell out of here!” he roared.
At the end of that tottering run I pulled myself up. What prompted the lunacy I really cannot say, except perhaps that a Rugby Blue doesn’t enjoy being hustled out of the game in just that way.
I came about in one jump, ran in and tackled him low!
It was on any count a mad thing to do, but he wasn’t expecting it. He went down beautifully, I half on top of him—but I was first up. As I stood there breathing heavily I was weighing my chances. And looking at the bull neck and span of shoulders, an uncomfortable conviction came that if Seaman Pallant decided to fight it out I was probably booked for a first-class hiding.
However, he did not move.
I watched him second after second, standing poised with clenched fists; I thought it was a trick. Still he did
