“This is a case where the Red Cross is no protection,” he said hurriedly. “It’s Herne and his pack. Keep as much under cover as you can. We shall probably not be noticed,” he added. “They seem to be in full cry. There!”
As he spoke, a single man rushed into view at the corner. He was running with his head down, looking neither to right nor left, but I caught a glimpse of his face as he passed and I have never seen terror marked so deeply on any countenance. He was evidently exhausted, yet he seemed to be driven on by a frantic fear which kept him on his feet even though he staggered and slipped as he went by.
“The quarry,” said Glendyne. “Now comes the pack.”
Almost on the heels of the fugitive, a horde of pursuers swept into sight: about forty or fifty men and women running with long, easy strides. Some of them shouted as they ran, others passed in silence; but all had a dreadful air of intentness. It was more like the final stage of a foxhunt than anything else that I can recall. Leading the crew was a huge negro, running with an open razor in his hand; and I saw flecks of foam on his mouth as he passed. Next to him was a chestnut-haired girl wearing an evening dress which had once been magnificent. She had kilted up the skirt for ease in running. A silver horn was in her hand; and on it she blew from time to time, whilst the pack yelled in reply. The whole thing passed in a flash; and we heard them retreating into the distance towards Oxford Street.
“What’s that ghastly business?” I asked Glendyne. I had pulled out my pistol almost unconsciously when the pack swept into sight; but he had laid a grip on my wrist and prevented me from firing.
“The nigger in front was Herne—Herne the Hunter, they call him. They hunt in a pack, you see, and run down any isolated individual they happen to come across in their prowlings. I wish we could get hold of them; but they seldom come near any of the picketed areas. They can get all the sport they need without that. Once the hunt is up, they recognise nothing. That’s why I told you the Red Cross wouldn’t save you. If they chase, they kill; and they seem able to run anyone down. I never heard of a victim escaping them.”
“What do they do it for?”
“Pleasure, fun, anything you like. It gives them a peculiar delight to hunt and kill. You see, Flint, in these times the instincts which are normally under control have all broken loose upon us; and the hunting instinct is one of the very oldest we have. In ordinary times, it comes out in foxhunting or grouse-shooting or some wild form like that. But nowadays there is no restraint and the instinct can glut itself to the full. Man-hunting is the final touch of pleasure for these creatures.”
“Who was the girl at the head of them?”
“Oh, that? She was Lady Angela.” He gave a sneering laugh. “What an incongruity there is in some names! Satanita was what she ought to have been christened if everyone had their rights. And yet, in the old days, one could never have suspected this in her. I knew her, you know, and I more than liked her. She used to sing me old French songs; and one of them was rather a horrible production. It ought to have put me on my guard; but I suppose every man is a fool where women are concerned.”
He broke off and hummed to himself a snatch of an old air:
“Pour passer ces nuits blanches,
Gallery, mes enfants,
Chassait tous les dimanches
Et battais les paysans.
Entendez-vous la sarabande? …
“And so now she’s running a kind of Chasse-Gallery on her own account along with that human devil, Herne. It shows how little one knows.”
Just as we approached Oxford Mansions, I heard the sound of a pistol-shot, and when we came up to the spot we found a still warm body with a Colt automatic clasped in its hand. “Suicide,” said Glendyne briefly, after examining the body. “The short way out.”
There was nothing to be done, so we turned away. As we did so a black shadow dropped out of the sky and I saw a huge crow alighting by the side of the corpse. I think that this incident made as great an effect upon me as any. Times had changed indeed when crows became night-birds. Glendyne watched me drive the brute away from the corpse without attempting to help.
“What’s the use? It will be back as soon as we go; and I don’t suppose you want to stay here all night? Birds are desperate for food nowadays, and that fellow may give you more than you expect if you don’t leave him alone. The old fear of man has left them, you know, nowadays.”
Before we had gone many steps, we encountered another inhabitant, a cadaverous young man with an acid stain on his sleeve. He stopped and wished us “Good evening,” being apparently glad to meet someone to whom he could talk. It was a relief to find that he appeared to be perfectly sane. I had become so accustomed to abnormality by this time that I think his sanity came almost as an unexpected thing. I asked him what he did to pass the time.
“I was working at some alkaloid constitutions when the Plague came, and I just went on with that. I’ve got one definitely settled except for the position of a single methyl radicle, now; and I think I shall get that fixed in a day or two. But probably you aren’t a chemist?”
“No. Not
