Once he stumbled over a rut in the ground and the nearest man gained several yards. Another shot rang out and this time he heard it snarl angrily over his head. There was fifty yards to go. In ordinary circumstances he could have made it, but the loss of blood from his wound had weakened him, and he knew that it would be but a matter of a few yards at the finish between him and the foremost of his pursuers—point blank range.
He halted abruptly and swinging in his tracks fired blindly at the nearest man. He took no conscious aim, for he knew himself for a rotten shot. He intended it only as a demonstration to check pursuit. But luck was with him. He saw the first man stop in his stride, and seat himself abruptly on the ground, nursing his ankle while he cursed venomously and loudly.
Labar did not stop to admire his fluke. Breathing hard, he made the shelter of the wood, and plunged on for thirty yards or so till he was satisfied that he was out of sight. Then, copying a famous historical example, he climbed into the sheltering branches of an ancient oak, and rested with fluttering breath, while behind he could hear the crackling of twigs as his two unhurt pursuers, who had abandoned their companion for the while, beat about from the point at which he had entered. He had little fear that they would discover him now, but he quietly examined his weapon as their steps drew near, then receded, then drew closer again.
At last he could distinguish their voices. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack,” complained one. “The bloke’s made a clean getaway, Billy.”
“Can’t have got far,” retorted Billy Bungey. “He’s hiding out somewhere close handy. If we don’t stop his mouth we’re for it. I know the swab and I’d be glad to make him a present of a handful of lead for old time’s sake. He’s as artful as a wagon load of monkeys.”
“Poor ol’ Jim winged out there,” said the other voice. “Hadn’t we better get back to him?”
Billy consigned Jim to the pit, with full-bodied adjectives. “Jim can look after himself. We gotta find this John if it takes a month. Didn’t you hear what Larry said? We got to stop his mouth one way or the other. He’s got it on Larry—which means the rest of us. I guess he’s got me taped anyway. He must have recognised me.”
“But, Billy, this is a dam fool’s game. He may be well away and getting help. We ought to make tracks. If he gets help—”
“Aw—shut up. You make me sick. Whatja think he’s going to do? Bring the village rozzer out by aeroplane, or what? There ain’t any police that he can get here for hours. Got an attack of the funks, ain’t you?”
“All the same I’m chuckin’ it,” returned the other, sullenly. “I’m goin’ to move out of this district swift and sharp and sudden. It won’t be none too healthy if they picket the roads. I guess Larry’ll agree. If you want to picnic in these woods you can do it on your own.”
He turned away with decision, and Billy reviling him for a yellow dog followed. Labar waited till their voices had died away. Then he got to the ground and began to pick his way at leisure through the copse. He came at length to a ride, such as is cut in these places for the convenience of sportsmen, and this rendered his progress easier. So, following this, he reached another strip of the park, and climbing a fence, found his way into a wheatfield.
He had but the remotest idea of the way in which he was travelling. But sooner or later he must come to a road of some sort, and, thus to the resources of civilisation, which were represented in his mind at the moment by one thing—a telephone. If he could get to a telephone much might be done before the day was out.
So at last he reached a country lane and, turning by pure guess work to his right, was brought at last to a superior road two minutes before a light car came speeding from the distance. He stepped to the centre of the road with arms outstretched, and as the car drew up a big-shouldered young man with a square chin peered suspiciously at him.
Labar remembered that he could not look a reassuring object. He was hatless, dishevelled and dirty, and a bramble had caught his face in the wood making a sinister scratch across it.
“What is it?” demanded the square-chinned young man.
“I want a lift to the nearest telephone, and then to a doctor’s,” explained the inspector.
“What’s wrong? I’m a doctor.”
Labar fumbled in his pockets and found his warrant card, and his ordinary official card. He passed them over to the motorist. “I’m a police officer, as these will show you. There are just two things you can do for me. One is to send a telephone message. The other is to patch me up and not bother me with questions till some later time.”
The other descended from his car. “Right you are, Mr. Labar,” he said briskly. “Since I’m here and the telephone is two or three miles away, we’ll do the patching up first. Now let’s have a look at you.”
By the side of the car Labar stripped to the waist, and the doctor with swift gentle skill examined his wound. “Nothing for a man of your physique to worry about,” he declared. “A superficial cut. Chief trouble
