“You scream and I will kill you!” hissed a voice in her ear.
At that moment the car started, and the girl, with a scream which was strangled in her throat, fell swooning back on the seat.
May recovered consciousness to find the car still rushing forward in the dark and the hand of her captor still resting at her throat.
“You be a sensible girl,” said a muffled voice, “and do as you’re told and no harm will come to you.”
It was too dark to see his face, and it was evident that even if there were light the face was so well concealed that she could not recognize the speaker. Then she remembered that this man, who had acted as her guide, had been careful to keep in the shadow of whatever light there was while he was conducting her, as he said, to the matron.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“You’ll know in time,” was the noncommittal answer.
It was a wild night; rain splashed against the windows of the car, and she could hear the wind howling above the noise of the engines. They were evidently going into the country, for now and again, by the light of the headlamps, she glimpsed hedges and trees which flashed past. Her captor suddenly let down one of the windows and leaned out, giving some instructions to the driver. What they were she guessed, for the lights were suddenly switched off and the car ran in darkness.
The girl was in a panic for all her bold showing. She knew that this desperate man was fearless of consequence, and that, if her death would achieve his ends and the ends of his partners, her life was in imminent peril. What were those ends, she wondered. Were these the same men who had done to death John Minute?
“Who are you?” she asked.
There was a little, chuckling laugh.
“You’ll know soon enough.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a terrific crash. The car stopped suddenly and canted over, and the girl was jerked forward to her knees. Every pane of glass in the car was smashed, and it was clear, from the angle at which it lay, that irremediable damage had been done. The man scrambled up, kicked open the door, and jumped out.
“Level-crossing gate, sir,” said the voice of the chauffeur. “I’ve broken my wrist.”
With the disappearance of her captor, the girl had felt for the fastening of the opposite door, and had turned it. To her delight it opened smoothly, and had evidently been unaffected by the jam. She stepped out to the road, trembling in every limb.
She felt, rather than saw, the level-crossing gate, and knew that at one side was a swing gate for passengers. She reached this when her abductor discovered her flight.
“Come back!” he cried hoarsely.
She heard a roar and saw a flashing of lights and fled across the line just as an express train came flying northward. It missed her by inches, and the force of the wind threw her to the ground. She scrambled up, stumbled across the remaining rails, and, reaching the gate opposite, fled down the dark road She had gained just that much time which the train took in passing. She ran blindly along the dark road, slipping and stumbling in the mud, and she heard her pursuer squelching through the mud in the rear.
The wind flew her hair awry, the rain beat down upon her face, but she stumbled on. Suddenly she slipped and fell, and as she struggled to her feet the heavy hand of her pursuer fell upon her shoulder, and she screamed aloud.
“None of that,” said the voice, and his hand covered her mouth.
At that moment a bright light enveloped the two, a light so intensely, dazzlingly white, so unexpected that it hit the girl almost like a blow. It came from somewhere not two yards away, and the man released his hold upon the girl and stared at the light.
“Hello!” said a voice from the darkness. “What’s the game?”
She was behind the man, and could not see his face. All that she knew was that here was help, unexpected, Heaven sent, and she strove to recover her breath and her speech.
“It’s all right,” growled the man. “She’s a lunatic and I’m taking her to the asylum.”
Suddenly the light was pushed forward to the man’s face, and a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder.
“You are, are you?” said the other. “Well, I am going to take you to a lunatic asylum, Sergeant Smith or Crawley or whatever your name is. You know me; my name’s Wiseman.”
For a moment the man stood as though petrified, and then, with a sudden jerk, he wrenched his hand free and sprang at the policeman with a wild yell of rage, and in a second both men were rolling over in the darkness. Constable Wiseman was no child, but he had lost his initial advantage, and by the time he got to his feet and had found his electric torch Crawley had vanished.
XVII
The Man Called “Merrill”
“If Wiseman did not think you were a murderer, I should regard him as an intelligent being,” said Saul Arthur Mann.
“Have they found Crawley?” asked Frank.
“No, he got away. The chauffeur and the car were hired from a West End garage, with this story of a lunatic who had to be removed to an asylum, and apparently
