There was utter silence after the shout died away upon the wind, and then Campion’s voice behind them murmured again:
“Once more. Put your backs into it.”
The cry rang out wildly, agonizingly, a shout for help, and then again there was stillness.
Martin suddenly caught his breath.
“They’ve heard,” he said in a voice strangled with excitement. “A chap is coming over here now.”
XXIII
An Error in Taste
“What shall I shout to him?” said Martin nervously, as the solitary horseman came cantering across the turf towards the house. “I can’t blab out the whole story.”
“Yell, ‘We’re prisoners,’ ” suggested Kennedy, “and, ‘Get us out for the love of Mike.’ ”
“It’s a young chap,” murmured Martin. “Sits his horse well. Must be a decent cove. Here goes.”
He thrust his head as far out of the window as the bars would permit, and his clear young voice echoed out across the grass.
“Hello! Hello! Hell‑o! Up here—top window! Up here! I say, we’re prisoners. A loony in charge is going to burn the house down. For God’s sake give the alarm and get us out.”
There was a period of silence, and then Martin spoke over his shoulder to the others:
“He can’t hear. He’s coming closer. He seems to be a bit of an ass.”
“For heaven’s sake get him to understand,” said Wyatt. “Everything depends on him.”
Martin nodded, and strained out of the window again.
“We’re locked in here. Prisoners, I tell you. We—” he broke off suddenly and they heard him catch his breath.
“Dawlish!” he said. “The brute’s down there talking to him quietly as if nothing were up.”
“We’re imprisoned up here, I tell you,” he shouted again. “That man is a lunatic—a criminal. For heaven’s sake don’t take any notice of him.”
He paused breathless, and they heard the heavy German voice raised a little as though with suppressed anger.
“I tell you I am a doctor. These unfortunate people are under my care. They are poor imbeciles. You are exciting them. You will oblige me by going away immediately. I cannot have you over my grounds.”
And then a young voice with an almost unbelievable county accent spoke stiffly:
“I am sorry. I will go away immediately, of course. I had no idea you—er—kept lunatics. But they gave the ‘view-halloo’ and naturally I thought they’d seen.”
Martin groaned.
“The rest of the field’s coming up. The pack will be past in a moment.”
Mr. Campion’s slightly falsetto voice interrupted him. He was very excited. “I know that voice,” he said wildly. “That’s old ‘Guffy’ Randall. Half a moment.”
On the last word he leapt up behind Martin and thrust his head in through the bars above the boy’s.
“Guffy!” he shouted. “Guffy Randall! Your own little Bertie is behind these prison bars in desperate need of succour. The old gentleman on your right is a fly bird—look out for him.”
“That’s done it!”
Martin’s voice was triumphant.
“He’s looking up. He’s recognized you, Campion. Great Scott! The Hun is getting out his gun.”
At the same moment the German’s voice, bellowing now in his fury, rose up to them.
“Go away. You are trespassing. I am an angry man, sir. You are more than unwise to remain here.”
And then the other voice, well bred and protesting.
“My dear sir, you have a friend of mine apparently imprisoned in your house. I must have an explanation.”
“Good old Guff—” began Mr. Campion, but the words died on his lips as the German’s voice again sounded from the turf beneath them.
“You fool! Can none of you see when I am in earnest? Will that teach you?”
A pistol shot followed the last word, and Martin gasped.
“Good God! He hasn’t shot him?” The words broke from Abbershaw in horror.
Martin remained silent, and then a whisper of horror escaped the flippant Mr. Campion.
“Shot him?” he said. “No. The unmitigated arch-idiot has shot one of the hounds. Just caught the tail end of the pack. Hullo! Here comes the huntsman with the field bouncing up behind him like Queen Victoria rampant. Now he’s for it.”
The noise below grew to a babel, and Albert Campion turned a pink, excited face towards the anxious group behind him.
“How like the damn fool Guffy,” he said. “So upset about the hound he’s forgotten me.”
He returned to his lookout, and the next moment his voice resounded cheerfully over the tumult.
“I think they’re going to lynch Poppa von Faber. I say, I’m enjoying this.”
Now that the danger was less imminent, the spirits of the whole party were reviving rapidly.
There was an excited guffaw from Martin.
“Campion,” he said, “look at this.”
“Coo!” said Mr. Campion idiotically, and was silent.
“The most militant old dear I’ve ever seen in all my life,” murmured Martin aloud. “Probably a Lady Di-something-or-other. Fourteen stone if she weighs an ounce, and a face like her own mount. God, she’s angry. Hullo! She’s dismounting.”
“She’s coming for him,” yelped Mr. Campion. “Oh, Inky-Pinky! God’s in His Heaven, all’s right with the world. She’s caught him across the face with her crop. Guffy!” The last word was bellowed at the top of his voice, and the note of appeal in it penetrated through the uproar.
“Get us out! And take care for yourselves. They’re armed and desperate.”
“With you, my son.”
The cheering voice from outside thrilled them more than anything had done in their lives before, and Martin dropped back from the window, breathless and flushed.
“What a miracle,” he said. “What a heaven-sent glorious miracle. Looks as if our Guardian Angel had a sense of humour.”
“Yes, but will they be able to get to us?” Meggie spoke nervously. “After all, they are armed, and—”
“My dear girl, you haven’t seen!” Martin turned upon her. “He can’t murder half the county. There’s a crowd outside the house that makes the place look like the local horse show. Daddy Dawlish’s stunt for putting the fear of God into Campion’s little friend has brought the entire Hunt down upon him thirsting for his blood. Looks as if they’ll
