“By Jove, so it does,” said T. B., picking up the locket; “that never struck me before. It was the secret of Moor Cottage which this man discovered, and with which he was trying to blackmail our friend. So far as the patriotic postscript is concerned that is beyond my understanding.”
“There is a meaning to it,” said Ela, “and it is not a cryptogram either. You see how he has forgotten to put the e in ‘save’? And he has spelt ‘king’ ‘keng.’ ”
They waited before the house whilst Brown drove to the rectory, and then on to the town. Jeremiah Bangley arrived in a state of calm anticipation. That his sister had disappeared did not seem to strike him as a matter for surprise, though he permitted himself to say that it was a very remarkable occurrence.
“I have always warned Constance not to be here alone, and I should never have forgiven myself if Brown had not been on the spot,” he said.
“Can you offer any explanation?”
The rector shook his head. He was totally ignorant of the arrangements of the house, had never, so he said, put foot in it in his life. This was perfectly true, for he was an incurious man who did not greatly bother himself about the affairs of other people. The local police arrived in half an hour, headed by the chief inspector, who happened to be in the station when the report was brought in.
“I suppose I had better take this young man to the station?” he said, indicating Frank.
“Why?” asked T. B. calmly; “what do you gain by arresting him? As a matter of fact there is no evidence whatever which would implicate Mr. Doughton, and I am quite prepared to give you my own guarantee to produce him whenever you may require him.
“The best thing you can do is to get back to town,” he said kindly to that young man; “you need a little sleep. It is not a pleasant prelude to your marriage. By the way, that is tomorrow, is it not?” he asked, suddenly.
Frank nodded.
“I wonder if that has anything to do with your kidnapping,” said T. B. thoughtfully. “Is there any person who is anxious that this marriage should not come about?”
Frank hesitated.
“I hardly like to accuse a man,” he said, “but Poltavo—”
“Poltavo?” repeated T. B. quickly.
“Yes,” said Frank; “he has some views on the question of Miss Gray.”
He spoke reluctantly, for he was loath to introduce Doris’ name into the argument.
“Poltavo would have a good reason,” mused T. B. Smith. “Tell me what happened in the car.”
Briefly Frank related the circumstances which had led up to his capture.
“When I found myself in their hands,” he said, “I decided to play possum for a while. The car was moving at incredible speed, remembering your stringent traffic regulations,”—he smiled—“and I knew that any attempt to escape on my part would result in serious injury to myself. They made no bones about their intentions. Before we were clear of London they had pulled the blinds, and one of them had switched on the electric lamp. They were both masked, and were, I think, foreigners. One sat opposite to me, all through the night, a revolver on his knees, and he did not make any disguise of his intention of employing his weapon if I gave the slightest trouble.
“I could not tell, because of the lowered blinds, which direction we were taking, but presently we struck the country and they let down one of the windows without raising the blind and I could smell the sweet scent of the fields, and knew we were miles away from London.
“I think I must have dozed a little, for very suddenly, it seemed, daylight came, and I had the good sense in waking to make as little stir as possible. I found the man sitting opposite was also in a mild doze, and the other at my side was nodding.
“I took a very careful survey of the situation. The car was moving very slowly, and evidently the driver had orders to move at no particular pace through the night, in order to economize the petrol. There was an inside handle to each of the doors, and I had to make up my mind by which I was to make my escape. I decided upon the near side. Gathering up my energies for one supreme effort, I suddenly leapt up, flung open the door, and jumped out. I had enough experience of the London traffic to clear the car without stumbling.
“I found myself upon a heath, innocent of any cover, save for a belt of trees about half a mile ahead of me as I ran. Fortunately the down, which was apparently flat, was, in fact, of a rolling character, and in two minutes I must have been out of sight of the car—long before they had brought the driver, himself half asleep probably, to an understanding that I had made my escape. They caught sight of me as I came up from the hollow, and one of them must have fired at me, for I heard the whistle of a bullet pass my head. That is all the story I have to tell. It was rather a tame conclusion to what promised to be a most sensational adventure.”
At the invitation of the Reverend Jeremiah he drove back to the rectory, and left T. B. to continue his search for the missing Lady Constance. No better result attended the second scrutiny of the rooms than had resulted from the first.
“The only suggestion I can make now,” said T. B., helplessly, “is that whilst our friend the coachman was reading, his lady slipped out without attracting his attention and strolled away; she will in all probability be awaiting us at the rectory.”
Yet in his heart he knew that this view was absolutely wrong. The locked doors, the evidence of a struggle in the room,
