But, as I have said, in the pauses of the conversation, when their faces were in repose, both women looked strained and tired. Especially was this so in the case of Miss D’Arblay. She was not only pale, but she had a nervous, shaken manner which I did not like. And as I looked anxiously at the delicate, pallid face, I noticed, not for the first time, several linear scratches on the cheek and a small cut on the temple.
“What have you been doing to yourself?” I asked. “You look as if you had had a fall.”
“She has,” said Miss Boler in an indignant tone. “It is a marvel that she is here to tell the tale. The wretches!”
I looked at Miss D’Arblay in consternation. “What wretches?” I asked.
“Ah! indeed!” growled Miss Boler. “I wish I knew. Tell him about it, Miss Marion.”
“It was really rather a terrifying experience,” said Miss D’Arblay; “and most mysterious. You know Southwood Lane and the long, steep hill at the bottom of it?” I nodded, and she continued: “I have been going down to the studio every day on my bicycle, just to tidy up, and, of course, I went by Southwood Lane. It is really the only way. But I always put on the brake at the top of the hill and go down quite slowly because of the crossroads at the bottom. Well, three days ago I started as usual and ran down the Lane pretty fast until I got on the hill. Then I put on the brake; and I could feel at once that it wasn’t working.”
“Has your bicycle only one brake?” I asked.
“It had. I am having a second one fixed now. Well, when I found that the brake wasn’t acting, I was terrified. I was already going too fast to jump off, and the speed increased every moment. I simply flew down the hill, faster and faster with the wind whistling about my ears and the trees and the houses whirling past like express trains. Of course, I could do nothing but steer straight down the hill; but at the bottom there was the Archway Road with the trams and buses and wagons. I knew that if a tram crossed the bottom of the Lane as I reached the road, it was practically certain death. I was horribly frightened.
“However, mercifully the Archway Road was clear when I flew across it, and I steered to run on down Muswell Hill Road, which is nearly in a line with the lane. But suddenly I saw a steam roller and a heavy cart, side by side and taking up the whole of the road. There was no room to pass. The only possible thing was to swerve round, if I could, into Wood Lane. And I just managed it. But Wood Lane is pretty steep, and I flew down it faster than ever. That nearly broke down my nerve; for at the bottom of the lane is the wood—the horrible wood that I can never even think of without a shudder. And there I seemed to be rushing towards it to my death.”
She paused and drew a deep breath, and her hand shook so that the cup which it held rattled in the saucer.
“Well,” she continued, “down the Lane I flew with my heart in my mouth and the entrance to the wood rushing to meet me. I could see that the opening in the hurdles was just wide enough for me to pass through, and I steered for it. I whizzed through into the wood and the bicycle went bounding down the steep, rough path at a fearful pace until it came to a sharp turn; and then I don’t quite know what happened. There was a crash of snapping branches and a violent shock, but I must have been partly stunned, for the next thing that I remember is opening my eyes and looking stupidly at a lady who was stooping over me. She had seen me fly down the Lane, and had followed me into the wood to see what happened to me. She lived in the Lane, and she very kindly took me to her house and cared for me until I was quite recovered; and then she saw me home and wheeled the bicycle.”
“It is a wonder you were not killed outright!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” she agreed; “it was a narrow escape. But the odd thing is that, with the exception of these scratches and a few slight bruises, I was not hurt at all; only very much shaken. And the bicycle was not damaged a bit.”
“By the way,” said I, “what had happened to the brake?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Boler; “there you are. The villains!”
Miss D’Arblay laughed softly. “Ferocious Arabella!” said she. “But it is really a most mysterious affair. Naturally, I thought that the wire of the brake had snapped. But it hadn’t. It had been cut.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” I asked.
“Oh, there is no doubt at all,” she replied. “The man at the repair shop showed it to me. It wasn’t merely cut in one place. A length of it had been cut right out. And I can tell within a few minutes when it was done, for I had been riding the machine in the morning and I know the brake was all right then. But I left it for a few minutes outside the gate while I went into the house to change my shoes, and when I came out, I started on my adventurous journey. In those few minutes someone must have come along and just snipped the wire through in two
