He led her to a discussion on the topography of the marshes in which the old man came and joined. By the time his breakfast was finished he had extracted much information that might be indirectly useful in his quest, but nothing bearing directly upon it. The only point that they were unanimous upon was that it was a foolhardy thing for a stranger to explore the marshes without a guide. It was odds that if he persisted he would have to spend a night in the “hand-cold” and mist-sodden atmosphere.
Laughingly he waved aside their warnings and since one road was like another for his purpose set off across the nearest marsh track in the general direction of Dungeness. An hour’s walking on the lonely wastes convinced him that the old folk knew what they were talking about. His map and pocket compass helped him only vaguely, for as he branched into deeper recesses there were twists and tangles, tracks that came to an abrupt nothingness, and unexpected watercourses that barred his way. Once or twice he located himself by the aid of occasional “lookers,” as the shepherds of the district are locally known. After all, it did not much matter whether he went in one direction or another. He wished there were more shepherds. If there had been a big motor car traversing these rough tracts one or the other of them would surely have seen it.
Many hours went by, however, and all his inquiries met with negative result. He was by now completely lost. An hour had gone since he had seen a living soul and he sat down to eat a sandwich, with which he had had the forethought to provide himself, and to consider the position.
He was tired and the sun was hot. He stretched himself for a short nap after his frugal repast. When he awoke he glanced at his watch and swore to himself as he realised that he had slept for over two hours.
He stood up and stretched himself, and then suddenly dropped at full length in the coarse grass and stared intently across the marsh about which a slight haze was already beginning to rise.
Something less than a mile away a car was slowly making its way. The distance was too great for him to discern anything more than that it was a big saloon, but he had not the slightest doubt that it was the very car that he was seeking. It was utterly improbable that any other would be risking its springs in this desolate region.
He lay very still till the motor disappeared from sight. Then he took a compass bearing to the point at which he had seen it. He stuck his stick in the ground and tied a handkerchief to it, to afford him a very necessary point from which to work, for by now he knew that it might cost him three miles of roundabout walking to make his way to the spot even though it was under a mile away in a straight line. Then he set off.
Again and again he had to retrace his steps, to find some way of crossing the many dykes, and he was duly thankful that he had had the intelligence to make an improvised flag which afforded him a definite clue to his starting point in the dreary sameness of the marsh. Something over an hour of tedious walking it took him to cover the distance. At last a hazardous journey over a slimy plank brought him to a narrow and almost imperceptible roadway. And there imprinted on the turf were the slight but unmistakeable tyre marks of a big motor car.
Labar whistled cheerfully as he bent to examine them.
XXII
The conveniences of civilisation are rarely noticed until they are missed. Harry Labar would have given much to have had a telephone within convenient access just then. He regretted that he had not hunted in company with Malone instead of separating to widen the search. He had little doubt that if he followed the car tracks back he must come sooner or later upon the retreat of Larry Hughes and his followers. But what then? What chance would he stand if he essayed any step singlehanded against this gang of armed and desperate men?
His common sense told him to go back to obtain reinforcements from the Kent Constabulary or even to wire to Scotland Yard. But he had no idea how long it would take him to walk out of the marsh, let alone to get in touch with aid. Many hours at the best was certain. Meantime Larry and his friends might slip out of the trap—for all he knew, they might have done so already. Every minute might be valuable.
He felt that he was behaving like an impetuous and foolish youngster as he bent his head to follow the tyre tracks in the direction from which the car had come.
The mist grew thicker as he trudged on. A damp seafog was sweeping up from the channel and he shivered beneath his old tweeds. But for the track he must have inevitably become lost for it soon became impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Once he paused to do a queer thing. He walked deliberately in the muddy slime of a dyke till his boots were covered with mud. He twisted his slouch hat into a ball and trod on it. With his penknife he started little holes in his jacket and trousers, and tore at them with his fingers till the already shabby suit had become even more dilapidated. A handful of dirt applied to edges of the rents added to their verisimilitude. One of the best dressed men at Scotland Yard had become a perfect specimen of a down-at-heels tramp.
He reasoned that should any unexpected encounter take place in the fog with any of Larry’s people he might thus elude recognition. It might be a superfluous precaution, but it
