Brinkman himself either did not carry a torch or did not use it. His pace was leisurely on the whole, though he seemed to quicken his step a little when the church clock struck half-past eight. By that time he was already at the opening of the gorge. This took him out of sight, and Eames, secure in the cover which the dark tufts of fern afforded, ran forward over the spongy grass to creep up nearer to him. The gorge itself, ominous at all times, was particularly formidable under such skies as these. The half-light enabled one to see the path, but (to a man unaccustomed to his surroundings) suggested the ever-present possibility of losing one’s foothold; and when the lightning came, it revealed the angry torrent beneath with unpleasant vividness. Fortunately the noise of the elements deadened the sound of feet on the hard rock. Eames hesitated for one moment, and then followed along the narrow path that led up the gorge.
He could just see the dim figure that went before him as it reached the wider foothold at the middle of the gorge, where Brinkman and Bredon had interrupted their conversation to comment on the shape of the rocks, Then it halted, and Eames halted too; he was now less than twenty yards behind, and he was at the last turn in the rock which could promise him any shelter from observation. He did well to halt, for while he stood there a huge tree of lightning seemed to flash out from the opposite side of the valley, and, for an interval which could be counted in seconds, the whole landscape lay open to view as if in hard daylight.
Eames’s eyes were riveted upon a single spot; he had thoughts for nothing but the sudden and inexplicable behaviour of Brinkman. In that flash, he saw the little man leaping up in the air, his right hand outstretched at full arm’s length, as if to reach the top, or something behind the top, of that very ledge which in the morning he had compared to the rack in a railway carriage. Indeed, Brinkman himself looked not unlike some juvenile traveller who just cannot reach the parcel he wants to bring down, and must needs jump for it. What was the object of Brinkman’s manoeuvre did not appear, nor even whether he was trying to take something down from the ledge or to put something onto it. But the grotesque attitude, momentarily revealed in that single spotlight of the thunderstorm, was perfectly unmistakable.
The prolonged glare left Eames momentarily blinded, like one who has just passed a car with very powerful headlights. When he saw clearly again, the dark figure under the ledge was gone. Could Brinkman have taken alarm? He had looked backward after his absurd leap, like a man who felt he was pursued. In any case, Eames must press forward now, or he would lose his quarry altogether. … By the time he had reached the ledge a new flash came and showed him, at the very end of the gorge, Brinkman running as if for his life. There was no more sense in concealment; he must mend his own pace too; and that was impossible, on this narrow shelf of rock, unless he lit his torch. Lighting it, he took one look at the ledge toward which Brinkman had been jumping, and, by reason of his superior height, saw without difficulty an envelope which looked as if it must be the explanation of Brinkman’s gesture. He reached it with little trouble, put it in his pocket, and ran. As he ran he heard the hum of a motor engine on the road above him.
The scramble up the bank at the further end of the gorge was less formidable than he had feared, for he kept his torch alight, and he made a pace very creditable for his years. But even as he breasted the level of the roadway, he saw a car climbing the hill, doubtless carrying Brinkman with it. He cried to the driver to stop, but a volley of thunder drowned his utterance. He turned impotently, and began running down the hill: in ten minutes or so, at this pace, he should be at the garage. But as he ran he took the envelope out of his pocket and scanned its superscription by the light of his torch. It read: “To His Lordship the Bishop of Pullford. Private and Confidential.” He thrust it away, wondering; but a short-winded man running has no taste for puzzles. Would it be any use turning in to the Load of Mischief, and letting somebody else carry his message the rest of the way? Hardly; and a double set of explanations would be a waste of precious time.
He reached the garage panting too heavily for speech, and, in answer to a challenge in Leyland’s voice, turned his own torch on himself for identification. Then, leaning wearily against the front of the lorry, he blurted out his explanations. “He’s gone—motorcar—toward Pullford—couldn’t stop him—better follow him up—didn’t look a fast car—lost him at the gorge—take me with you, and I’ll explain.”
“Yes, but curse it all, has he made for Pullford or for Lowgill? We must try Lowgill; we can telegraph from there, anyhow, and have him stopped. Hullo, who next?”
Angela had rushed in, hatless, to announce Breton’s cryptic observation about the car. She knew his mysterious moods, and felt that it was best to make straight for Leyland, especially as her car was the only fast one in the township. “Right you are,” she said, when the situation had been outlined to her; “I’ll drive you both into Lowgill;
