to Park Lane. As he ran through the garden he saw first one light at the top of the house blaze, then another and another. He was breathing hard, but running well within himself. He reached the street safely. Should he turn right, towards Park Lane, or left?
He decided on the former, and shed his mackintosh as he went. In its pocket was the handkerchief with the false initials, and he had time to smile grimly as he dropped the coat to the ground, and then turned the brim of his hat up. He stopped running, and he was breathing more regularly when he reached Park Lane and turned towards Piccadilly. There was just one thing he wanted now — a taxi.
An empty one overtook him after two or three minutes, and he beckoned it thankfully, giving the driver instructions to drive to Victoria Station. As he sank back in the cab a film of sweat broke over his face and hands, and he shivered a little.
It was over: the ice was broken. He couldn’t call it a failure, for he had learned a great deal. As he cooled down he stopped shivering: and twice within the next five minutes he chuckled aloud.
“Nothing taken, thank God!” said Lord Fauntley to John Mannering some thirty-six hours later. They had met at the Carlton Club, and Fauntley was full of the burglary. “Lorna must have scared the thief, Mannering, before he had time to get at the combinations. I thought I heard something, and I wasn’t long moving.”
“No one hurt, I hope ?” Mannering asked.
“Not seriously. The night-guard was knocked unconscious, but nothing worse. Well, I’ll make sure in future, Mannering —
“It would be wiser,” admitted Mannering, proffering cigarettes. “Anything for the police to go on?”
“Police?” Fauntley snorted as he accepted a cigarette. “What do you expect from them, Mannering ? They actually had the man’s mackintosh,
“Delighted.”
“Then that’s fixed, that’s fixed,” said Fauntley jauntily. “We’ll be delighted, Mannering, delighted. Tuesday, if it’s all right with you? Splendid! And now I’ll have to be going.”
They shook hands, and Mannering smiled thoughtfully as the peer stumped out of the lounge. Obviously Fauntley didn’t suspect. But Lorna ?
“I’ll take a chance,” Mannering said to himself. “I don’t think she’ll have any idea — I don’t see how she can.”
He was prepared to swear, after dinner on the following Tuesday, that she had no idea at all that he had been in the strong-room. She talked more on that second night, mostly of the burglary. Her sympathies, Mannering discovered, were inclined to be with the burglar, but she had been scared when he had snarled at her.
“What made you go down?” he asked, as they drove towards their second
“Not more than hall-past two,” Lorna said. “I had been to the Ran-Tan, and I was back late . . .”
“You’re developing a negroid complex.” Mannering smiled.
“Don’t joke with a serious subject. I went to the back-door — Dad doesn’t like leaving the front unbolted — and I saw the light in the library. So I looked in . . .”
“You were asking for trouble,” said Mannering.
“I nearly got it. That man’s gun was the most cold-blooded tiling I’ve ever seen. But” — she brushed her hand through her hair and smiled, without much humour — “let’s forget it. I’ve told the story to the police and to Dad and to every Tom, Dick, and Harry I haven’t been able to dodge. Let’s dance.”
They danced; and for a second time Mannering enjoyed an evening with her. But all the time he felt that there was something she wanted to say, yet held back.
CHAPTER FIVE
“FOR BETTER OR WORSE,” GRUNTED TOBY PLENDER, “AND naturally you’ve chosen worse. Somewhere in the back of my mind, J. M., one or two words are jogging round. They’re not very clear, and they sound suspiciously like Kipling when I want to use ‘em. . . .”
He broke off, eyeing Mannering evenly.
“I’ve an idea,” grinned Mannering, “that they begin with P-T-G. A soul-stirring poem, Toby. Play up, play up, and play . . . No, I can’t say ‘em. They stick.”
“They ought to.” snapped Plender.
It was a month after Mannering’s attempt on the Fauntley jewels, and a great many things had happened in the interval concerning Mannering and the Fauntleys. Mannering had met Plender that morning, and the solicitor had suggested lunch at his flat; Mannering, smiling to himself, had accepted the invitation. As he had expected, Plender was harping on the old theme.
“Then that’s all right,” said Mannering. “They ought to, and they do. What are you worrying about?”
“You,” said Plender, “and — well, never mind the “and”. . . . I suppose you’ve been on the winning end for a week or two?”
“If you mean that I’ve been winning money,” said Mannering, “I have. Heavily. Only don’t ask my bank-manager how much. He’s a funny fellow, with a peculiar objection to disclosing the state of my account.”
Plender rubbed the tip of his hooked nose.
“So you’re still rattled about that, are you?”
