He got up from the table and handed the papers to the custody of the detective, and turned with a quizzical smile to his friend.
“George, do you look forward with any pleasure to a two hundred and fifty miles’ drive?”
“Are you the chauffeur?” asked George.
“I am the chauffeur,” said Leon cheerfully. “I have driven a car for many years and I have not been killed yet. It is unlikely that I shall risk my precious life and yours tonight. Come with me and I promise never to hit her up above sixty except on the real speedways.”
Manfred nodded.
“We will stop at Oxley and try to get a phone call through to Gloucester,” said Leon. “This line is, of course, out of order. They would do nothing so stupid as to neglect the elementary precaution of disconnecting Rath Hall.”
At Oxley the big Spanz pulled up before the dark and silent exterior of an inn, and Leon, getting down, brought the half-clad landlord to the door and explained his mission, and also learned that two big cars had passed through half an hour before, going in the direction of London.
“That was the gang. I wonder how they’ll explain to their paymaster their second failure?”
His first call was to the house in Curzon Street, but there was no reply. “Ring them again,” said Leon. “You left Poiccart there?”
Manfred nodded.
They waited for five minutes; still there was no reply.
“How queer!” said Manfred. “It isn’t like Poiccart to leave the house. Get Gloucester.”
At this hour of the night the lines are comparatively clear, and in a very short time he heard the Gloucester operator’s voice, and in a few seconds later the click that told them they were connected with Heavytree Farm. Here there was some delay before the call was answered.
It was not Mirabelle Leicester nor her aunt who spoke. Nor did he recognize the voice of Digby, who had recovered sufficiently to return to duty.
“Who is that?” asked the voice sharply. “Is that you, sergeant?”
“No, it is Mr. Meadows,” said Leon mendaciously.
“The Scotland Yard gentleman?” It was an eager inquiry.
“I’m Constable Kirk, of the Gloucester Police. My sergeant’s been trying to get in touch with you, sir.”
“What is the matter?” asked Leon, a cold feeling at his heart.
“I don’t know, sir. About half an hour ago, I was riding past here—I’m one of the mounted men—and I saw the door wide open and all the lights on, and when I came in there was nobody up. I woke Miss Goddard and Mr. Digby, but the young lady was not in the house.”
“Lights everywhere?” asked Leon quickly.
“Yes, sir—in the parlour at any rate.”
“No sign of a struggle?”
“No, sir, but a car passed me three miles from the house and it was going at a tremendous rate. I think she may have been in that. Mr. Digby and Miss Goddard have just gone into Gloucester.”
“All right, officer. I am sending Mr. Gonsalez down to see you,” said Leon, and hung up the receiver.
“What is it?” asked George Manfred, who knew that something was wrong by his friend’s face.
“They’ve got Mirabelle Leicester after all,” said Leon. “I’m afraid I shall have to break my promise to you, George. That machine of mine is going to travel before daybreak!”
XIX
At Heavytree Farm
It had been agreed that, having failed in their attack, and their energies for the moment being directed to Rath Hall, an immediate return of the Old Guard to Heavytree Farm was unlikely. This had been Meadows’ view, and Leon and his friend were of the same mind. Only Poiccart, that master strategist, working surely with a queer knowledge of his enemies’ psychology, had demurred from this reasoning; but as he had not insisted upon his point of view, Heavytree Farm and its occupants had been left to the care of the local police and the shaken Digby.
Aunt Alma offered to give up her room to the wounded man, but he would not hear of this, and took the spare bedroom; an excellent position for a defender, since it separated Mirabelle’s apartment from the pretty little room which Aunt Alma used as a study and sleeping-place.
The staff of Heavytree Farm consisted of an ancient cowman, a cook and a maid, the latter of whom had already given notice and left on the afternoon of the attack. She had, as she told Mirabelle in all seriousness, a weak heart.
“And a weak head too!” snapped Alma. “I should not worry about your heart, my girl, if I were you.”
“I was top of my class at school,” bridled the maid, touched to the raw by this reflection upon her intelligence.
“It must have been a pretty small class,” retorted Alma.
A new maid had been found, a girl who had been thrilled by the likelihood that the humdrum of daily labour would be relieved by exciting events out of the ordinary, and before evening the household had settled down to normality. Mirabelle was feeling the reaction and went to bed early that night, waking as the first slant of sunlight poured through her window. She got up, feeling, she told herself, as well as she had felt in her life. Pulling back the chintz curtains, she looked out upon a still world with a sense of happiness and relief beyond measure. There was nobody in sight. Pools of mist lay in the hollows, and from one white farmstead, far away on the slope of the hill, she saw the blue smoke was rising. It was a morning to remember, and, to catch its spirit the better, she dressed hastily and went down into the garden. As she walked along the path she heard a window pulled open and the bandaged head of Mr. Digby appeared.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, miss?” he said with relief, and she laughed.
“There is nothing more terrible in sight than a big spider,”
