Swimming back to the land taxed her strength to the full. It was nearly an hour before her feet touched firm sand and she staggered up the beach. Here she rested until the pangs of hunger drove her toward the last visible obstacle.
There was one which was not visible. After a quarter of an hour’s walk, she found her way barred by a deep sea river which ran under the overhung cliff. She had seen this place before—where was it? And then she remembered, with an exclamation.
This was the cave that Olga had told her about, the cave that ran under Larmes Keep. Shading her eyes, she looked up. Yes, there was the little landslide part of the wall that had been carried away projected from a heap of rubble on the cliff side.
Suddenly Margaret saw something which made her breath come faster. On the edge of the deep channel which the water had cut in the sand was the print of a boot, a large, square-toed boot with a rubber heel. It had been recently made. She looked farther along the channel and saw another—it led to the mouth of the cave. On either side of the rugged entrance was a billow of firm sand left by the retreating waters, and again she saw the footprint. A visitor to the cave, perhaps, she thought. Presently he would come out and she would explain her plight, though her appearance left little need for explanation.
She waited, but there was no sign of the man. Stooping, she tried to peer into its dark depths. Perhaps, if she were inside out of the light, she could see better. She walked gingerly along the sand ledge, but as yet her eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, revealed nothing.
She took another step, passed into the entrance of the cave; and then, from somewhere behind, a bare arm was flung round her shoulder, a big hand closed over her mouth. In terror, she struggled madly, but the man held her in a grip of iron. Then her senses left her and she sank limply into his arms.
XV
Mr. Reeder was not an emotional man. For the first time in his life Inspector Simpson learned that behind the calm and imperturbable demeanour of the Public Prosecutor’s chief detective lay an immense capacity for violent language. He fired a question at the officer, and Simpson nodded.
“Yes, the car returned. The driver said that he had orders to go back to London. I thought you had changed your plans. You’re staying with this bullion robbery, Reeder?”
Mr. Reeder glared across the desk, and despite his hardihood Inspector Simpson winced.
“Staying with hell!” hissed Reeder.
Simpson was seeing the real and unsuspected J. G. Reeder and was staggered.
“I’m going back to interview that monkey-faced criminologist, and I’m going to introduce him to forms of persuasion which have been forgotten since the Inquisition!”
Before Simpson could reply, Mr. Reeder was out of the door and flying down the stairs.
It was the hour after lunch, and Daver was sitting at his desk, twiddling his thumbs, when the door was pushed open unceremoniously and Mr. Reeder came in. He did not recognize the detective, for a man who in a moment of savage humour slices off his side whiskers brings about an amazing change in his appearance. And with the banishing of those ornaments, there had been a remarkable transformation in Mr. Reeder’s demeanour. Gone were his useless pince-nez which had fascinated a generation of lawbreakers; gone the gentle, apologetic voice, the shyly diffident manner.
“I want you, Daver!”
“Mr. Reeder!” gasped the yellow-faced man, and turned a shade paler.
Reeder slammed the door to behind him, pulled up a chair with a crash, and sat down opposite the hotel proprietor.
“Where is Miss Belman?”
“Miss Belman?”
Astonishment was expressed in every feature. “Good gracious, Mr. Reeder, surely you know? She went up to get your dactyloscope—is that the word? I intended asking you to be good enough to let me see this—”
“Where—is—Miss—Belman? Spill it, Daver, and save yourself a lot of unhappiness.”
“I swear to you, my dear Mr. Reeder—”
Reeder leaned across the table and rang the bell.
“Do—do you want anything?” stammered the manager.
“I want to speak to Mrs. Flack—you call her Mrs. Burton, but Mrs. Flack is good enough for me!”
Daver’s face was ghastly now. He had become suddenly wizened and old.
“I’m one of the few people who happen to know that John Flack is married,” said Reeder; “one of the few who knows he has a daughter. The question is, does John Flack know all that I know?”
He glowered down at the shrinking man.
“Does he know that after he was sent to Broadmoor his sneaking worm of a secretary, his toady and parasite and slave, decided to carry on in the Flack tradition, and use his influence and his knowledge to compel the unfortunate daughter of mad John Flack to marry him?”
A frenzied, almost incoherent voice wailed:
“For God’s sake—don’t talk so loud.”
But Mr. Reeder went on:
“Before Flack went to prison he entrusted to his daughter his famous encyclopaedia of crime. She was the only person he trusted; his wife was a weak slave whom he had always despised. Mr. Daver, the secretary, got possession of those books a year after Flack was committed to Broadmoor. He organized his own little gang at Flack’s old headquarters, which were nominally bought by you. Ever since you knew John Flack was planning an escape—an escape in which you had to assist him—you’ve been living in terror that he would discover how you had double-crossed him. Tell me I’m a liar and I’ll beat your miserable little head off. Where is Margaret Belman?”
“I don’t know,” said the man sullenly. “Flack had a car waiting for her—that’s all I know.”
Something in his tone, something in the shifty slant of his eyes infuriated Reeder. He stretched out a long arm, gripped the man by the collar and jerked him savagely across the desk. As a feat of physical strength it was
