Godfrey put his finger to his lip and murmured: “Be quiet. She can hear you.”
“What does that matter?” said de Bennetot. “In a little while she’ll—”
The words died away on his lips; and they seemed no longer to dare to break the silence. Every quarter of an hour the clock of the village church chimed. Ralph fancied he could see their lips move as they counted the strokes, gazing fearfully at one another without saying anything.
But when that clock struck ten, Godfrey d’Etigues banged his fist down on the table with a violence that made the lamp jingle.
“Hell take it! It’s time we started.”
“What a disgusting job it is!” growled de Bennetot. “Are we going by ourselves?”
“The others want to come with us. But I shall send them back from the top of the cliff, since they believe in that English ship,” said the Baron.
“I should much prefer that we went in a body,” said de Bennetot.
“Oh, be quiet! My instructions are that only you and I are to handle the matter. The others might get talking; and that would be a pretty kettle of fish. Hullo! Here they are!”
The others turned out to be the three who had not taken the train, that is to say d’Ormont, Rufus d’Estiers, and Rolleville. The latter was carrying a stable lamp which the Baron made him extinguish.
“No lights,” he said. “Somebody would see it moving about on the cliff and start gossiping about it. Have the servants gone to bed?”
“Yes,” said Rufus d’Estiers. “And Clarice?”
“She must be upstairs. We haven’t seen anything of her,” said Rolleville.
“As a matter of fact, she’s a little out of sorts today,” said the Baron. “Let’s be getting off.”
D’Ormont and Rolleville took the handles of the stretcher. They crossed the park and then a field to the lane which led from the village to the priest’s staircase. The starless sky was black with heavy clouds; and in the darkness the little procession, practically feeling its way, stumbled over ruts and banks. Curses kept slipping out; the Baron d’Etigues angrily hushed them.
“Will you stop that noise, confound you!” he muttered savagely. “Somebody will recognize our voices!”
“Who will recognize our voices, Godfrey? There’s absolutely nobody about, for you took your precautions with regard to the coastguards,” de Bennetot protested.
“Yes, they’re safe enough. They’re at the inn, guests of a man I can rely on. Nevertheless it’s just possible that a patrol is making its round.”
There came a depression in the plateau which the road followed. Then it rose again; and they made their way as best they might to the spot at which the staircase rose to the top of the cliff.
It had been hollowed out of the cliff many years before on the suggestion of a priest of Benouville, in order that the country people might descend to the beach. It was lighted by openings cut through the chalk. Through them there were magnificent views of the sea, whose waves were dashing against the rocks below, and into which one seemed to be on the point of plunging.
“It’s going to be a difficult job, to get that stretcher down those steps,” said Rolleville. “We’d better help you. At any rate we can light the staircase for you.”
“No,” said the Baron with decision. “It is wiser to separate. So back you get.”
The three of them obeyed without further protest. The Baron lighted a bull’s-eye lantern; and without any delay the two cousins set about the difficult task of getting the stretcher down the staircase.
It proved a long job. The steps were steep and the turnings in the cliff were sometimes so narrow that they were compelled to raise the stretcher right on end to get it round them. The little lamp afforded but a feeble light that illumined but a few steps at a time.
De Bennetot soon lost his temper, and to such a degree that with the natural brutality of a badly brought up boor he proposed simply to “chuck the whole thing down,” that is to say, to push the unfortunate girl, litter and all, through one of the openings in the chalk.
At last they reached the beach, which was composed of a fine gravel, and stopped to recover their breath. A little way off two boats were drawn up side by side. The sea, quite calm, unruffled by the smallest wave, lapped against their keels. De Bennetot pointed out the hole he had made in the bottom of the smaller of the two, which for the time being was closed by a kind of stopper of straw. They set the stretcher on the three thwarts.
“Let’s tie the whole lot together,” said Godfrey d’Etigues.
De Bennetot made a very sensible objection; he said: “And if ever there’s a search, and this boat and stretcher and girl are found tied together at the bottom of the sea, this stretcher will prove damned awkward evidence against us.”
“We’ve got to go far enough out to make it impossible for anyone to recover anything ever,” said the Baron. “Besides it’s an old stretcher which hasn’t been used for the last twenty years. I routed it out from a loft full of lumber. There’s nothing to fear from that.”
He spoke in a shaky, fearful voice that de Bennetot hardly recognized.
“What’s the matter with you, Godfrey?” he asked.
“The matter with me? What should be the matter with me?” muttered the Baron more than a trifle indistinctly.
“Then? …”
“Then shove the boat down into the water. … But first of all, according to
