Sir Clinton waited for a few minutes longer. Then he seemed to have exhausted the limit which he had set for himself.
“You see the situation?” he demanded, turning to the others. “He’s in there. He refuses to come out. We’ve got to get him.”
“I suppose you’re going to starve him out?” Wendover inquired, as Sir Clinton stopped short.
“Too risky. He might get away in the dark when night comes on. I don’t say he could; but I’m going to take no risks.”
“Then I suppose we’ll need to go into the Maze and dig him out,” Wendover suggested, philosophically.
Sir Clinton dissented with a nod.
“I’m responsible for the lives of my constables,” he said. “I can take some brands of responsibility quick enough; but I won’t shoulder the liability of sending good men to hunt armed vermin through a maze like that. They know nothing about its paths. He knows every inch of it. It would be sheer murder if I gave orders of that sort. No, there’s a better way. But bear in mind that I gave him the chance of surrender first of all.”
Arthur fidgeted with his rifle.
“I know the Maze as well as he does,” he pointed out. “I could get him out easily enough if you’d let me take on the job.”
Sir Clinton negatived the suggestion curtly.
“I’ve got a better ferret than you, my boy. If he gets driven into the open and looks like escaping, I’ll let you wing him. But that’s all you are to do.”
He wetted his finger and held it up in the air.
“Couldn’t be better. There’s just a faint drift in the air. You’ve got the stuff over by the boathouse?” he added, turning to the constable. “Right. We’ll go across, then. But keep well away from the Maze as we go; for the beast may be hiding behind the outermost hedge trying to draw a bead on us as we pass.”
Considerably mystified, Wendover followed Sir Clinton towards the river bank. When they reached the neighbourhood of the boathouse, he was still more astonished to find a number of sacks lying on the grass, evidently filled with some material. Three spades were grouped close by. Again Sir Clinton held up his moistened finger and gauged the direction of the light airs that were blowing. Then, seeing the surprised faces of his companions, he pointed to the sacks:
“My ferret!”
Ardsley had gone over and inspected one of the bags. He rubbed his finger on the outside of one and then inspected the skin with interest. Then, suddenly, he laughed grimly:
“Sulphur! That’s a cute notion. A ferret!”
Sir Clinton acknowledged the discovery with a smile that had more than a touch of the sinister in it.
“Simple, isn’t it?”
“Quite the Mikado touch,” Ardsley commented.
Sir Clinton said no more, but busied himself with giving orders to his subordinates. Wendover had grasped the meaning of the interchange between Ardsley and the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton meant to use the simplest poison gas of all—the fumes of burning sulphur. The light air-currents would drift them over the Maze; and Ernest Shandon would soon find his fastness converted into a deathtrap. He would have to come out into the open; and by that time he would be in such a state that he could be easily captured.
Sir Clinton had issued his directions, posting his constables at points from which they could converge on the various entrances to the Maze if necessary.
“Take no risks,” he added, finally. “I don’t want any fancy exploits today. The man who gets Shandon and suffers no damage in getting him, will be the man who gets a good mark from me. I’ll not have anyone hurt, understand!”
He dismissed the constables to carry his orders to their comrades, and then swung round to the rest of the group.
“You can get over yonder, to that clump of rhododendrons, Hawkhurst. If he shows up anywhere within your zone of fire, you’re to wing him. You’re not to kill him. I’m trusting you to play the game, remember.”
Arthur nodded, and betook himself to his post.
“Two more guns will cover all but this side of the Maze,” Sir Clinton went on. “You go over to the road, Wendover. From there,” he pointed, “you can cover young Hawkhurst’s dead ground. I’ll do the same on the other side. But first of all, we’ve got to get this stuff spread around a bit.”
He cut the twine at the mouth of the sacks, tilted out the sulphur, and began to distribute it with a spade. The others hurried to assist him, and spread the yellow lumps under his directions.
“Now we can light up,” Sir Clinton said, at last, when things had been completed to his satisfaction. “These fireworks will give the thing a good start if you spray the sparks to and fro over the surface of the stuff.”
He produced some fireworks from a paper parcel as he spoke and set an example to his companions. Soon the sulphur caught fire; and Wendover, incautiously working on the leeward side, began to cough violently.
“Keep to the windward side of the stuff,” Sir Clinton advised. “Get it alight here and there. The flame will soon spread over the whole surface. Now, I’m off.”
He picked up his shotgun and skirted the Maze at a respectful distance as he made his way to his post. For a minute or two Wendover stolidly continued to tend the “ferret”; but he could not help wondering whether this method of criminal-hunting really came within permitted bounds. His mind inclined more readily to active measures; and the devil’s cookery was, as he phrased it to Ardsley, “hardly the game.”
The toxicologist showed no sympathy with his point of view.
“Driffield’s quite right. Suppose tonight found him with a dead constable on his hands—perhaps a widow and some fatherless children to face? Would you care to be in his shoes? I wouldn’t! Play the game? Bosh! It’s not playing the game to chuck away your men’s lives unnecessarily.”
He dug up some
