They crossed Westminster Bridge and bore left to the New Kent Road. Through the rain-blurred windows J. G. picked up the familiar landmarks and offered a running commentary upon them in the manner of a guide. Margaret had not realised before that history was made in South London.
“There used to be a gibbet here—this ugly-looking goods station was the London terminus of the first railways—Queen Alexandra drove from there when she came to be married—the thoroughfare on the right after we pass the Canal bridge is curiously named Bird-in-Bush Road—”
A big car had drawn level with the cab, and the driver was shouting something to the cabman. Even the suspicious Mr. Reeder suspected no more than an exchange of offensiveness, till the cab suddenly turned into the road he had been speaking about. The car had fallen behind, but now drew abreast.
“Probably the main road is up,” said J. G., and at that moment the cab slowed and stopped.
He was reaching out for the handle when the door was pulled open violently, and in the uncertain light Mr. Reeder saw a broad-shouldered man standing in the road.
“Alight quickly!”
In the man’s hand was a long, black Colt, and his face was covered from chin to forehead by a mask.
“Quickly—and keep your hands erect!”
Mr. Reeder stepped out into the rain and reached to close the door.
“The female also—come, miss!”
“Here—what’s the game—you told me the New Cross Road was blocked.” It was the cabman talking.
“Here is a five—keep your mouth shut.”
The masked man thrust a note at the driver.
“I don’t want your money—”
“You require my bullet in your bosom perchance, my good fellow?” asked Ras Lal sardonically.
Margaret had followed her escort into the road by this time. The car had stopped just behind the cab. With the muzzle of the pistol stuck into his back, Mr. Reeder walked to the open door and entered. The girl followed, and the masked man jumped after them and closed the door. Instantly the interior was flooded with light.
“This is a considerable surprise to a clever and intelligent police detective?”
Their captor sat on the opposite seat, his pistol on his knees. Through the holes of the black mask a pair of brown eyes gleamed malevolently. But Mr. Reeder’s interest was in the girl. The shock had struck the colour from her face, but he observed with thankfulness that her chief emotion was not fear. She was numb with amazement, and was stricken speechless.
The car had circled and was moving swiftly back the way they had come. He felt the rise of the Canal bridge, and then the machine turned abruptly to the right and began the descent of a steep hill. They were running towards Rotherhithe—he had an extraordinary knowledge of London’s topography.
The journey was a short one. He felt the car wheels bump over an uneven roadway for a hundred yards, the body rocking uncomfortably, and then with a jar of brakes the machine stopped suddenly.
They were on a narrow muddy lane. On one side rose the arches of a railway aqueduct, on the other an open space bounded by a high fence. Evidently the driver had pulled up short of their destination, for they had to squelch and slide through the thick mud for another fifty yards before they came to a narrow gateway in the fence. Through this they struck a cinder-path leading to a square building, which Mr. Reeder guessed was a small factory of some kind. Their conductor flashed a lamp on the door, and in weatherworn letters the detective read:
“The Storn-Filton Leather Company.”
“Now!” said the man, as he turned a switch. “Now, my false-swearing and corrupt police official, I have a slight bill to settle with you.”
They were in a dusty lobby, enclosed on three sides by matchboard walls.
“ ‘Account’ is the word you want, Ras Lal,” murmured Mr. Reeder.
For a moment the man was taken aback, and then, snatching the mask from his face:
“I am Ras Lal! And you shall repent it! For you and for your young missus this is indeed a cruel night of anxiety!”
Mr. Reeder did not smile at the quaint English. The gun in the man’s hand spoke all languages without error, and could be as fatal in the hands of an unconscious humorist as if it were handled by the most savage of purists.
And he was worried about the girl: she had not spoken a word since their capture. The colour had come back to her cheeks, and that was a good sign. There was, too, a light in her eyes which Reeder could not associate with fear.
Ras Lal, taking down a long cord that hung on a nail in the wooden partition, hesitated.
“It is not necessary,” he said, with an elaborate shrug of shoulder; “the room is sufficiently reconnoitred—you will be innocuous there.”
Flinging open a door, he motioned them to pass through and mount the bare stairs which faced them. At the top was a landing and a large steel door set in the solid brickwork.
Pulling back the iron bolt, he pushed at the door, and it opened with a squeak. It was a large room, and had evidently been used for the storage of something inflammable, for the walls and floor were of rough-faced concrete and above a dusty desk an inscription was painted, “Danger. Don’t smoke in this store.” There were no windows except one some eighteen inches square, the top of which was near the ceiling. In one corner of the room was a heap of grimy paper files, and on the desk a dozen small wooden boxes, one of which had been opened, for the nail-bristling lid was canted up at an angle.
“Make yourself content for half an hour or probably forty minutes,” said Ras Lal, standing in the doorway with his ostentatious revolver. “At that time I shall come for your female; tomorrow she will be on a ship with me, bound for—ah, who knows where?”
“Shut the door as you go out,” said
