There was food on the tray: a pile of sandwiches, and a jug of water. Meggie stood listening for a moment, then she whispered sharply:
“George, they don’t take the same precautions with her. Perhaps if we got in there we could get past them.”
Abbershaw darted across the room to the other door, then his face changed.
“She’s bolted us out, of course,” he said, “and besides, we’re too late now. We must wait till they come this evening. Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry I got you into all this.”
The girl smiled at him, but she did not reply, and presently, since in spite of their precarious position they were very hungry, they sat down and began to eat.
And then the long weary day dragged on. Mrs. Meade did not seem to be inclined for further conversation, and they knew that sooner or later Dr. Whitby and the man who had driven him must return, and the red-leather wallet be identified. What would happen then they could only conjecture, but since Dawlish was already prejudiced against Abbershaw he was not likely to be unmoved when he discovered the story of the burning of the papers to be true.
But it was Meggie’s position that chiefly disturbed Abbershaw. Whatever they did to him, they were not likely to let her return to civilization knowing what she did about them. The others, after all, so far as Dawlish knew, realized little or nothing of the true position. Campion had succeeded in convincing them that he was no more than the fool he looked, and they knew nothing of his disclosures to Abbershaw and Prenderby.
The chances, therefore, were against them releasing the girl, and Abbershaw’s brain sickened at the thought of her possible fate. Escape was impossible, however, and there was nothing in the room that could in any way be manufactured into a weapon. The window, even had it been large enough to permit a man’s climbing through it, looked out on to a sheer drop of seventy feet on to the flags below.
There seemed nothing for it but to settle down and wait for Dawlish to make the next move.
As the morning passed and then afternoon without any change, save for a few martial and prophetic hymns from Mrs. Meade, their spirits sank deeper than ever; and it grew dark.
Clearly Whitby had not yet returned, and Abbershaw reflected that he might quite possibly have experienced some trouble with the cremation authorities, in which case there were distinct chances of the police coming to their rescue. He wondered, if that occasion should arise, what Dawlish would do—if he would remove Meggie and himself, or simply make a dash for it with his own gang, risking detection afterwards.
On the face of it, he reflected, as he considered what he knew of the man, both from what he had heard and his own experience, the chances were against Meggie and himself being left to tell their story. The prospects looked very black.
And then, quite suddenly, something happened that set his heart beating wildly with new hope, and made him spring to his feet with Meggie at his side, their eyes fixed upon the door, their ears strained to catch every sound.
From inside the room where Mrs. Meade had fortified herself, there came an extraordinary sound.
A gentle scraping followed by a burst of shrill indignation from the old woman herself, and the next moment, clear and distinct, a slightly nervous falsetto voice said briskly, “It’s all right, my dear madam, I’m not from the assurance company.”
Meggie grasped Abbershaw’s arm.
“Albert Campion!” she said.
Abbershaw nodded: the voice was unmistakable, and he moved over to the inner door and tapped upon it gently.
“Campion,” he called softly, “we’re in here.”
“That’s all right, old bird, I’m coming. You couldn’t call the old lady off, could you?”
Campion’s voice sounded a little strained.
“She seems to think I’m not the sort of person you ought to know. Can’t you tell her that many a true heart beats beneath a ready-made suit?”
“Mrs. Meade.”
Abbershaw raised his voice a little.
“Mr. Campion is a friend of ours. Could you let him in to us?”
“You keep strange company,” came the woman’s strident voice from the other side of the door. “A man that creeps down a chimney upon a body isn’t one that I’d put up with.”
Abbershaw and Meggie exchanged glances. Apparently Mr. Campion had descended from the skies.
Then the absurd voice came out to them again, raised a little in indignation.
“But even if your son is coming, my dear old bird,” he was saying, “there’s really no reason why my friends and I should not meet before that happy moment. After all, I too have a mother.” The exact significance of his last remark was not apparent, but it seemed to work like a charm upon the old woman, and with a few mumbled words she opened the door, and Albert Campion stood upon the threshold, beaming at them.
“I don’t think I’ll come in,” he said cheerfully. “This lady seems crazy for me to meet her son and I’m afraid that she may compel me to do so by locking me in with you if I get far enough out of the room for her to shut this door. And as the laddie is not expected to call till Wednesday, I don’t want him to get his diploma from me in person. I think if you’re both ready, we’ll all go back the way I came.”
“Down the chimney?” said Meggie, in some trepidation.
“Through the chimney,” corrected Campion, with pride. “I’ve been fooling about all day trying to find the ‘money-back’ handle—and now I’ve got the two coppers,” he added brightly, grinning at the two redheaded young people before him. “You can’t possibly dislike
