“What am I to do?”
Jeff Legge was biting his nails thoughtfully.
“Get the girl away—you’re due to leave by car, ain’t you? Get her to the Charlton Hotel. You’re supposed to stay there a week—make it a day. Clear to Switzerland tomorrow and stop her writing. I’ll fix Peter. He’ll pay.”
“For what?”
“To get his girl back; forty thousand—maybe more.”
Jeff Legge whistled.
“I didn’t see that side of the graft before. It’s a new variety of ‘black.’ ”
“It’s what I choose to call it!” hissed his father. “You’re in fifty-fifty. You can have the lot so far as I care. You make that girl eat dirt, d’ye hear? Put her right down to earth, Jeff … Peter will pay.”
“I promised Lila …” began the other, hesitant.
“Promise your Aunt Rebecca Jane!” Emanuel almost screamed. “Lila! That trash, and you the big man, too—what are ye running? A girls’ refuge society? Get!”
“What about Gray?”
“I’ll fix Gray!”
VII
The old man made his way back to the road and passed quickly along until he came to the main highway. Two men were seated in the shade of a bush, eating bread and cheese. They came quickly enough when he whistled them, tall, broad-shouldered men whose heavy jowls had not felt a lather-brush for days.
“Either of you boys know Johnny Gray?” he asked.
“I was on the ‘moor’ with him,” said one gruffly, “if he’s the fellow that went down for ‘ringing in’ horses?”
Emanuel nodded.
“He’s in the house, and it’s likely he’ll walk to the station, and likely enough take the shortcut across the fields. That’ll be easy for you. He’s got to be coshed—you understand? Get him good, even if you have to do it in the open. If there’s anybody with him, get him in London. But get him.”
Emanuel came back to his observation post as the first of the cars went into the drive. Jeff was moving quickly—and there was need.
Presently the car came out. Emanuel caught a glimpse of Jeff and the frightened face of the girl, and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of satisfaction. Peter was standing in the middle of the road, watching the car. If he knew! The smile vanished from the old man’s face. Peter did not know; he had not been told. Why? Johnny would not let her go, knowing. Perhaps Lila was lying. You can never trust women of that kind; they love sensation. Johnny … dangerous. The two words left one impression. And there was Johnny, standing, one hand in pocket, the other waving at the car as it came into brief view on the Shoreham road, as unconcerned as though he were the least interested.
A second car went in and came out. Some guests were leaving. Now, if Johnny had sense, he would be driven to London with a party. But Johnny hadn’t sense. He was just a poor sucker, like all cheap crooks are. He came out alone, crossed the road and went down the narrow passage that led to the field path.
Emanuel looked backward. His bulldogs had seen and were moving parallel to the unconscious Gray.
From the road two paths led to the field, forming a Y where they met. Johnny had passed the fork when he heard the footsteps behind him. Glancing back, he saw a familiar face and did some shrewd guessing. He could run and easily outdistance these clumsy men. He preferred to face them, and turned, holding his malacca cane in both hands.
“ ’Lo, Gray,” said the bigger of the men. “Where’n thunder are you going in such a hurry? I want to talk with you, you dirty squeaker! You’re the fellow that told the deputy I was getting tobacco in through a screw!”
It was a crude invention, but good enough to justify the rough house that was booked to follow. They carried sticks in their hands, pliable canes, shotted at the end.
The blow missed Johnny as he stepped back, and then something long and bright glittered in the afternoon sun. The scabbard of the sword cane he held defensively before him, the sword, thin and deadly, was pointed to the nearer of his enemies. They stopped, Saxon-like, appalled by the sight of steel.
“Bad boy!” said Johnny reproachfully.
The razor-pointed rapier flickered from face to face, and the men stumbled back, getting into one another’s way. One of the men felt something wet on his cheek, and put up his hand. When it came down it was wet and red.
“Beast, you have my brand!” said Johnny with deadly pleasantry. “Come when I call you.”
He clicked the sword back in its wooden sheath and strode away. His indifference, his immense superiority, was almost as tremendously impressive as his cold toleration.
“He’s ice, that fellow,” said the man with the cut cheek. A sob of rage softened the rasp of his voice. “By … I’ll kill him for that!”
But he made no attempt to follow, and his companion was glad.
John Gray increased his pace, and after a while emerged into the outskirts of the town. Here he found a Ford cab and reached the station in time to see the train pull out. He had made a mistake; the timetable had been changed that day, but in half an hour there was a fast train from Brighton that stopped only at Horsham.
He crossed the station yard to an hotel and was in the telephone booth for a quarter of an hour before he emerged, his collar limp, perspiration streaming down his face.
There was no sign of a familiar face when he came back to the platform. He expected to see Emanuel eventually, and here he was not disappointed, for Emanuel arrived a few minutes before the Brighton train came in.
Officially, it was their first meeting since they had been members of the same farm gang at Dartmoor, and Legge’s expression of surprise was therefore appropriate.
“Why, if it isn’t Gray! Well, fancy meeting you, old man! Well, this is a surprise! When did you come out?”
“Cease your friendly badinage,” said Johnny shortly. “If
