“Well, Geoffrey,” she said; “we haven’t met for some time. You’re looking thinner than when I saw you last.”
It was just as if she were greeting a friend whom she had lost sight of for a few weeks. She did not seem to see the incongruity of things. For all that her tone showed, they might have met casually in a drawing-room.
“It’s no use, Angela, I saw you in Berners Street tonight, you and your beasts. I knew all about you long ago. You needn’t pretend with me.”
She flushed, not with shame I could guess, but with anger.
“So you disapprove, do you, little man? You’re one of the kind that can’t understand a girl enjoying herself, are you? But if I were to whistle, you would come to heel quick enough. You were keen enough on me in the old days and I could make you keen again if I wished.”
She drew herself up and, despite her tattered dress and disordered hair, she made a splendid figure. Her voice became coaxing.
“Geoffrey, don’t you think you could take me away from all this? It isn’t my real self that does these things; it’s something that masters me and forces me to do them against my will. If you would help me, I could pull up. You used to be fond of me. Take me now.”
Glendyne did not hesitate.
“It’s no good, Angela. You’re corrupt to the core, and you can’t conceal it. I’ve no use for you. You couldn’t be straight if you tried. Do you think I want the associate of a nigger? And what a nigger at that!”
She began to answer him, but her voice choked with fury. She raised the silver horn to her lips; blew shrilly for a moment and then cried: “Herne! Herne! Here’s sport for you! Here’s sport!”
“I might have known that brute wouldn’t be far off if you were here,” said Glendyne bitterly. “Flint, use your shots in groups of three. It’s a signal to the patrol. We may pull out yet. Here they come, the whole pack!”
There was a trampling of feet in Duchess Street and I heard quite close at hand the hunting-cries of the band of ruffians. Glendyne fired nine times into the darkness of the street and we turned to run. Lady Angela watched us at first without moving, brooding on her revenge. By the time we had gone fifty yards, the whole pack was in full cry after us up Portland Place.
“We may run across Sanderson’s car before they get us,” Glendyne panted as he ran beside me. “The triple shots may bring him. Run for all you’re worth.”
He had removed the empty magazine as he ran and now turned for a moment and fired thrice in rapid succession at our pursuers. I did the same. But there was no check in the chase. We still maintained our distance ahead of them, but we gained nothing. All at once I began to find that I was falling behind. I was hopelessly out of training; and my side ached, while my feet seemed leaden. I ran staggeringly, just as I had seen the other quarry run in the earlier part of the night; and I gasped for breath as I ran.
I shall never forget that nightmare chase. Once I turned round and fired to gain time if possible. I heard Glendyne’s pistol also, more than once. But nothing seemed to check the pursuit. I felt it gaining on me; and the silver horn sounded always nearer each time it blew. It was no distance that we ran, but the pace was killing. I was afraid that we might be cut off by a fresh party emerging from Cavendish Street or Weymouth Street; but we passed these in safety. I learned afterwards that Herne’s band hunted like hounds, in a body, never separating into sections. Their pleasure was in the chase as much as anything; and they employed no strategy to trap their victims.
Just south of Devonshire Street I stumbled and fell. Glendyne wheeled round at once and tried to keep off the pack with his pistols; but as I rose to my feet again I saw them still coming on. The moon showed up their brutal faces hardly twenty yards away. I had given myself up for lost, when Glendyne shouted: “Lie down!” and rolled me over with his hand on my shoulder while he flung himself face downwards on the road. A dazzling glare shone in my eyes and passed; and then I saw a motor swinging in the road and the squat shape of a Lewis gun projected over its side.
I turned over and saw the pack almost upon us. Then came the roll of the Lewis gun and the maniacs stopped as though they had struck some invisible barrier. Herne crashed to the ground. Lady Angela staggered, stood for a moment fumbling with her horn, and then fell face downward. The remainder of the band turned and fled into Weymouth Street.
Glendyne picked himself up and went across to Lady Angela’s body. She was quite dead, at which he seemed relieved. I understood better when I saw one of the men in the patrol car going round amongst the wounded and finishing them with his revolver.
Sanderson, the patrol leader, spoke a few words to Glendyne; and then the car swung off into Park Crescent and disappeared. The whole thing had taken only a few seconds; and we were left alone with the dead.
“It’s all right now, Flint,” said Glendyne. “They won’t dare to come back. Besides, the leaders are gone”—he kicked the negro’s body—“and they were the worst. I’ll take this as a souvenir, I think.”
He picked up the little silver horn; and I wondered what it would remind him of in later days.
It was in Park Crescent that I got my last glimpse of the new London. On the pavement, halfway round to
