His last words were occasioned by the sound of footsteps outside, and then a horrified voice said clearly:
“Good heavens! What’s the smell of kerosene?”
Several heavy blows outside followed. Then there was the grating of bolts and the heavy door swung open.
On the threshold stood Guffy Randall, a pleasant, horsy young man with a broken nose and an engaging smile. He was backed by half a dozen or so eager and bewildered horsemen.
“I say, Bertie,” he said, without further introduction, “what’s up? The passage out here is soaked with paraffin, and there’s a small mountain of faggots on the stairs.”
Martin Watt grasped his arm.
“All explanations later, my son,” he said. “The one thing we’ve got to do now is to prevent Uncle Boche from getting away. He’s got a gang of about ten, too, but they’re not so important. He’s the lad we want, and a little sheeny pal of his.”
“Righto. We’re with you. Of course the man’s clean off the bean. Did you see that hound?”
“Yes,” said Martin soothingly. “But it’s the chappie we want now. He’ll make for his car.”
“He won’t get to it yet awhile,” said the newcomer grimly. “He’s surrounded by a tight hedge composed of the oldest members, and they’re all seeing red—but still, we’ll go down.”
Campion turned to Abbershaw.
“I think the girls had better come out,” he said. “We don’t want any mistakes at this juncture. Poor old Prenderby too, if we can bring him. The place is as inflammable as guncotton. I’ll give you a hand with him.”
They carried the boy downstairs between them.
As Randall had said, the corridors smelt of paraffin and there were enormous faggots of dry kindling wood in advantageous positions all the way down to the hall. Clearly Herr von Faber had intended to leave nothing to chance.
“What a swine!” muttered Abbershaw. “The man must be crazy, of course.”
Albert Campion caught his eye.
“I don’t think so, my son,” he said. “In fact I shouldn’t be at all surprised if at this very moment our friend Boche wasn’t proving his sanity pretty conclusively … Did it occur to you that his gang of boy friends have been a little conspicuous by their absence this morning?”
Abbershaw halted suddenly and looked at him.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded.
Mr. Campion’s pale eyes were lazy behind his big spectacles.
“I thought I heard a couple of cars sneaking off in the night,” he said. “We don’t know if old Whitby and his Dowager Daimler have returned—see what I mean?”
“Are you suggesting Dawlish is here alone?” said Abbershaw.
“Not exactly alone,” conceded Campion. “We know Gideon is still about, and that county bird with the face like a thug also, but I don’t expect the others are around. Consider it! Dawlish has us just where he wants us. He decides to make one last search for his precious package, which by now he realizes is pretty hopelessly gone. Then he means to make the place ready for his firework display, set light to it and bunk for home and mother; naturally he doesn’t want all his pals standing by. It’s not a pretty bit of work even for those lads. Besides, even if they do use the side roads, he doesn’t want three cars dashing from the scene at the same time, does he?”
Abbershaw nodded.
“I see,” he said slowly. “And so, now—”
The rest of his sentence was cut short by the sound of a shot from the turf outside, followed by a woman’s scream that had more indignation than fear in it. Abbershaw and Campion set down their burden in the shadow of the porch and left him to the tender ministrations of Jeanne while they dashed out into the open.
The scene was an extraordinary one.
Spread out in front of the gloomy, forbidding old house was all the colour and pageantry of the Monewdon Hunt. Until a moment or two before, the greater part of the field had kept back, leaving the actual interviewing of the offender to the Master and several of the older members, but now the scene was one of utter confusion.
Apparently Herr von Faber had terminated what had proved to be a lengthy and heated argument with a revolver shot which, whether by accident or by design, had pinked a hole through the Master’s sleeve, and sent half the horses in the field rearing and plunging; and then, under cover of the excitement, had fled for the garage, his ponderous form and long grey hair making him a strange, grotesque figure in the cold morning sun.
When Abbershaw and Campion burst upon the scene the first moment of stupefied horror was barely over.
Martin Watt’s voice rang out clearly above the growing murmur of anger.
“The garage … quickly!” he shouted, and almost before the last word had left his lips there was the sound of an engine “revving” violently. Then the great doors were shattered open, and the big Lanchester dived out like a torpedo. There were three men in it, the driver, Dawlish, and Gideon. Guffy Randall sprang into his saddle, and, followed by five or six of the younger spirits, set off at a gallop across the turf. Their intention was obvious. With reasonable luck they could expect to cut off the car at a point some way up the drive.
Campion shouted to them warningly, but his voice was lost in the wind of their speed, and he turned to Abbershaw, his face pale and twisted with horror.
“They don’t realize!” he said, and the doctor was struck with the depth of feeling in his tone. “Von Faber won’t stop for anything—those horses! God! Look at them now!”
Guffy Randall and his band had drawn their horses up across the road in the way of the oncoming car.
Campion shouted to them wildly, but they did not seem to hear. Every eye in the field was upon them as the great grey car shot on, seeming to gather speed at every second.
Campion stood rigidly, his arm raised above his head.
“He’ll charge
