Whilst the lawyer telephoned, Jim made a hasty meal. The pace had told on him and despair was in his heart.
The knowledge that Digby Groat would eventually be brought to justice did not comfort him. If Eunice had only been spared he would have been content to see Digby make his escape, and would not have raised his hand to stop him going. He would have been happy even if, in getting away, the man had been successful in carrying off the girl’s fortune. But Eunice was in his wicked hands and the thought of it was unendurable.
He was invited by the local police-sergeant to step across to the little lockup to interview the man Masters, who was under arrest, and as Mr. Salter had not finished telephoning, he crossed the village street and found the dour man in a condition of abject misery.
“I knew he’d bring me into this,” he wailed, “and me with a wife and three children and not so much as a poaching case against me! Can’t you speak a word for me, sir?”
Jim’s sense of humour was never wholly smothered and the cool request amused him.
“I can only say that you tried to strangle me,” he said. “I doubt whether that good word will be of much service to you.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to,” pleaded the man. “He told me to put the rope round your shoulders and it slipped. How was I to know that the lady wasn’t his wife who’d run away with you?”
“So that is the story he told you?” said Jim.
“Yes, sir,” the man said eagerly. “I pointed out to Mr. Groat that the lady hadn’t a wedding-ring, but he said that he was married all right and he was taking her to sea—”
“To sea?”
Masters nodded.
“That’s what he said, sir—he said she wasn’t right in her head and the sea voyage would do her a lot of good.”
Jim questioned him closely without getting any further information. Masters knew nothing of the steamer on which Digby and his “wife” were to sail, or the port at which he would embark.
Outside the police station Jim interviewed the sergeant.
“I don’t think this man was any more than a dupe of Groat’s,” he said, “and I certainly have no charge to make against him.”
The sergeant shook his head.
“We must hold him until we have had the inquest on the Spaniard,” he said, and then, gloomily, “To think that I had a big case like this right under my nose and hadn’t the sense to see it!”
Jim smiled a little sadly.
“We have all had the case under our noses, sergeant, and we have been blinder than you!”
The threat of a renewed dose of the drug had been sufficient to make Eunice acquiescent. Resistance, she knew, was useless. Digby could easily overpower her for long enough to jab his devilish needle into her arm.
She had struggled at first and had screamed at the first prick from the needlepoint. It was that scream Jim had heard.
“I’ll go with you; I promise you I will not give you any trouble,” she said. “Please don’t use that dreadful thing again.”
Time was pressing and it would be easier to make his escape if the girl did not resist than if she gave him trouble.
The propeller was ticking slowly round when they climbed into the fuselage.
“There is room for me, señor. There must be room for me!”
Digby looked down into the distorted face of the Spaniard who had come running after him.
“There is no room for you, Fuentes,” he said. “I have told you before. You must get away as well as you can.”
“I am going with you!”
To Digby’s horror, the man clung desperately to the side of the fuselage. Every moment was increasing their peril, and in a frenzy he whipped out his pistol.
“Let go,” he hissed, “or I’ll kill you,” but still the man held on.
There were voices coming from the lower path, and, in his panic, Digby fired. He saw the man crumple and fall and yelled to Bronson:
“Go, go!”
Eunice, a horrified spectator, could only stare at the thing which had been Digby Groat, for the change which had come over him was extraordinary. He seemed to have shrunk in stature. His face was twisted, like a man who had had a stroke of paralysis.
She thought this was the case, but slowly he began to recover.
He had killed a man! The horror of this act was upon him, the fear of the consequence which would follow overwhelmed him and drove him into a momentary frenzy. He had killed a man! He could have shrieked at the thought. He, who had so carefully guarded himself against punishment, who had manoeuvred his associates into danger, whilst he himself stood in a safe place, was now a fugitive from a justice which would not rest until it had lain him by the heel.
And she had seen him, she, the woman at his side, and would go into the box and testify against him! And they would hang him! In that brick-lined pit of which Jim Steele had spoken. All these thoughts flashed through his mind in a second, even before the machine left the ground, but with the rush of cold air and the inevitable exhilaration of flight, he began to think calmly again.
XLV
Bronson had killed him, that was the comforting defence. Bronson, who was now guiding him to safety, and who would, if necessary, give his life for him. Bronson should bear the onus of that act.
They were well up now, and the engines were a smooth b‑r‑r! of sound. A night wind was blowing and the plane rocked from side to side. It made the girl feel a little sick, but she commanded her brain to grow accustomed to the motion, and after a while the feeling of nausea wore off.
They could see the sea
