“And now, if you please, we shall all go to bed at once, for I’ve no idea when or where we shall sleep again.”
I had slept very ill for three hours when I heard a car making like fury towards the inn. At once I sat up, for, in view of what Mansel had said, I fully expected that it was bound for our door; but it swept up the street, like a squall, and presently turning some corner, passed out of earshot.
A moment later, however, I heard it coming again.
Again it went by the inn, but stopped, with its brakes screaming, a score of paces away. Then the reverse gear was engaged, and the car shot back with a snarl, to come to rest under our windows, before the inn.
The next instant someone was pounding upon the front door.
As I rushed to the window—
“What is it, Berry?” said Mansel, from the balcony.
Major Pleydell stepped back on the pavement and threw up his head.
“Jonah,” he cried, “she’s sent word. She’s got a message through.”
“I’ll come down,” said Mansel.
But George and I were before him and had the front door open, while he was still on the stairs.
For a moment the cousins spoke together: then Mansel turned to us.
“The man’s at Poganec,” he said. “We must go there at once.”
For all our haste, Mansel was ready before us, and I heard him call Carson and tell him to follow with Rowley and that Bell was to pack our light luggage and load the second Rolls.
Two minutes later we left in Major Pleydell’s car: Mansel was driving, while the chauffeur sat by his side.
We did not go to Poganec, but, instead, twenty miles to Crayern—the first station after Villach, if you are travelling east.
Arrived there, Mansel descended, and, wondering what was to happen, we followed him out of the car.
To our surprise, he bade Major Pleydell “Goodbye.”
“And thanks very much,” he said. “You did it most awfully well.”
“I wish it had been true,” said his cousin.
“So do I,” said Mansel. “So long.”
“Good night, you two,” said the other. George and I cried “Good night.”
Then the car slipped into the darkness and Mansel turned to us.
“You must forgive me,” he said. “I’ll never blind you again. And now let’s walk to the station, and talk as we go along.
“Rouse’s room’s above mine. I’m sure the car must have waked him, and I’m sure he heard what was said. She’s got a message through. And that’s the ‘news for Rose Noble which will not wait.’
“Very well. What will Rouse do? He’ll clear out at once. Well, that’s all right, but I don’t think his car will start. He’ll try to locate the trouble, and so will Bell—they’re probably sweating blood now—but they’ll only waste their time. And so Brother Rouse will have to take to the train. I think it more than likely that Bell will drive him to the station, for an Innsbruck train leaves Villach at a quarter to three. The same train leaves Crayern at a quarter past two, that is to say, in exactly ten minutes’ time. So, if we’re quick and that’s the station ahead, we four shall travel together as far as Rouse wants to go.
“Now it’s all very well to make plans for somebody else. I think Rouse will start right away and I think he will take this train. But Rowley will be on the platform to see if he does. If he doesn’t, look out for a flash from Rowley’s torch. If, as the train moves out, we see a flash, we leave the train at the next station: and there we shall find Carson waiting to bring us home. If we don’t get out, he’ll follow the train along, calling at every station until he finds one of us waiting to pick him up.
“Well, there you are. I’ve set my trap and I’ve tried to look ahead. I’d have given a very great deal to have your counsel, but I dared not tell you that Rouse was Rose Noble’s man.”
“Thank God you didn’t,” said Hanbury. “I couldn’t have played the hand to save my life.”
“I covet his nerve,” said I.
“You may well do that,” said Mansel. “Look at that—those flowers. Of course it made you suspect him, but he had you back in your place by eight the next day.”
By now we had come to the station, and ten minutes later we had our tickets for Innsbruck and were aboard the train.
As luck would have it, there was a sleeping car; and, as this was nearly empty, we were able to buy a compartment which held three beds. Comfort apart, this would save us no end of trouble, for now we could lock ourselves in and put out the light. To insure against interference, we told the attendant to make our beds at once and on no account to disturb us till Innsbruck was reached.
He was a talkative fellow and proud of what English he had, and I was soon in a fever lest we should come to Villach before the beds were made: indeed, as the minutes went by, I could hardly sit still, but at last he had set all to his liking and wished us good night.
Two minutes later the train began to slow down.
“Draw the blinds,” said Mansel, “because of the station lamps.”
When we had done so, he took his stand by the window and Hanbury put out the light.
As the train drew into the station, we stood as still as death, and to this day I remember every sound.
From the resonance of all noise, I judged the station empty, except for those on duty and a handful of freight. There was no haste or clamour, and, if passengers came or went, they gave no sign. After a little, a gong clanged five or six times,
