“To be continued—evidently,” he said, and added lightly, “Coming, Martin?”
Abbershaw returned to his post in the brewhouse, and, after doing all he could for the still unconscious Prenderby, settled down to await further developments.
He had given up reflecting upon the strangeness of the circumstances which had brought him, a sober, respectable London man, into such an extraordinary position, and now sat staring ahead, his eyes fixed on the grey stone wall in front of him.
Wyatt remained where he had collapsed; the others had not addressed him, realizing in some vague subconscious way that he would rather that they left him alone.
Abbershaw had forgotten him entirely, so that when he raised himself suddenly and staggered to his feet the little red-haired doctor was considerably startled. Wyatt’s face was unnaturally pale, and his dark eyes had become lacklustre and without expression.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I had a brain storm, I think—I must get old Harcourt Gieves to overhaul me if we ever get back to London again.”
“If we ever get back?” The words started out of Abbershaw’s mouth. “My dear fellow, don’t be absurd! We’re bound to get back some time or other.” He heard his own voice speaking testily in the silence of the room, and then with a species of forced cheerfulness foreign to him. “But now I think we shall be out of the house in an hour or so, and I shall be delighted to inform the county police of this amazing outrage.”
Even while he spoke he wondered at himself. The words and the voice were those of a small man speaking of a small thing—he was up against something much bigger than that.
Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Martin with the now conscious but still dazed Kennedy. The four prisoners remained quiet, and after the first jerky word of greeting and explanation there was no sound in the brewhouse, save the crackling of the fire in the great hearth.
It was Abbershaw himself who first broke the silence. It seemed that they had waited an age, and there was still no audible movement in the house above them.
“I hope he’s all right,” he said nervily.
Martin Watt looked up.
“An extraordinary chap,” he said slowly. “What is he?”
Abbershaw hesitated. The more he thought about Mr. Albert Campion’s profession the more confused in mind he became. It was not easy to reconcile what he knew of the man with his ideas on con-men and that type of shady character in general. There was even a possibility, of course, that Campion was a murderer, but the farther away his interview with Mrs. Meade became, the more ridiculous and absurd that supposition seemed. He did not answer Martin’s question, and the boy went on lazily, almost as if he were speaking to himself.
“The fellow strikes one as a congenital idiot,” he said. “Even now I’m not sure that he’s not one; yet if it hadn’t been for him we’d all be in a nasty mess at the present moment. It isn’t that he suddenly stops fooling and becomes serious, though,” he went on, “he’s fooling the whole time all right—he is a fool, in fact.”
“He’s an amazing man,” said Abbershaw, adding as though in duty bound, “and a good fellow.” But he would not commit himself further, and the silence began again.
Yet no one heard the kitchen door open, or noticed any approach, until a shadow fell over the bright doorway, and Mr. Campion, inoffensive and slightly absurd as ever, appeared on the threshold.
“I’ve scoured the house,” he murmured, “not a soul about. Old Daddy Hun and his pal are not the birds I took them for. They appear to have vamoosed—I fancy I heard a car. Ready?”
“Did you get the women?” It was Abbershaw who spoke. Campion nodded. “They’re here behind me, game as hell. Bring Prenderby over your shoulder, Watt. We’ll all hang together, women in the centre, and the guns on the outside; I don’t think there’s anyone around, but we may as well be careful. Now for the wide open spaces!”
Martin hoisted the unconscious boy over his shoulder and Abbershaw and Wyatt supported Kennedy, who was now rapidly coming to himself, between them. The girls were waiting for them in the kitchen. Jeanne was crying quietly on Meggie’s shoulder, and there was no trace of colour in Anne Edgeware’s round cheeks, but they showed no signs of panic. Campion marshalled the little force into advancing order, placing himself at the head, Meggie and Jeanne behind him, with Abbershaw on one side and Martin and Anne on the other, while Wyatt and Kennedy were behind.
“The side door,” said Campion. “It takes us nearest the garage—there may be some juice about now. If not, we must toddle of course. The tour will now proceed, visiting the Albert Memorial, Ciro’s, and the Royal Ophthalmic Hospital …”
As he spoke he led them down the stone passageway, out of the door under the stairs, and down the corridor to the side door, through which Abbershaw had gone to visit the garage on the fateful night of the Dagger Ritual.
“Now,” he said, as with extraordinarily silent fingers he manoeuvred the ponderous bars and locks on the great door, “this is where the orchestra begins to play soft music and the circle shuffles for its hats as we fall into one another’s arms—that’s done it!”
On the last word the hinges creaked faintly as the heavy door swung inwards. The night was pitch dark but warm and pleasant, and they went out eagerly on the gravel, each conscious of an unspeakable relief as the realization of freedom came to them.
“My God!” The words were uttered in a sob as Campion started forward.
At the same moment the others caught a shadowy glimpse of the radiator of a great car not two yards ahead of them. Then they were enveloped in the glare of enormous headlights, which completely blinded them.
They stood dazed and helpless for an instant, caught mercilessly and
