As Mansel was lifting the blind—
“I must be alone,” said Rouse.
I think we all started.
“Orright, orright,” said the attendant.
The voices came from the corridor outside our door.
Mansel stood like a statue, with the blind half raised in his hand.
“Well, get a move on,” said Rouse. “I’m pretty tired. What time do we get to Lass?”
Then the two passed on down the passage, and we could hear no more.
It was safe enough now to move and to switch on the light: yet we did neither, but continued to stand breathless, each of us busy with his thoughts.
For those of Hanbury and Mansel I cannot answer, but I know that I was thinking neither of what was before us nor of the secret which Mansel had so brilliantly won. I was thinking how the tone of a man’s voice may show the colour of his heart: for the voice was Rouse’s voice, but the tone was that of a harsh and evil man.
At length Mansel let the blind go and asked me to switch on the light.
A short study of the map suggested that we should reach Lass not later than six o’clock. The place lay fifty miles from Innsbruck and was either a fair-sized village or a very small town. The country about was highly mountainous.
It was then arranged that each should watch for one hour, while the others slept. I was to take the first watch, and Mansel the last; “although,” said he, “I think that may be a short one, for, before we get to Lass we must settle one or two things. Still, I shall begin to get pensive at five o’clock, and so, if you two don’t mind, I’ll sleep till then.”
Then the light was put out, and he and George lay down, whilst I sat still by the window, to watch the landscape go by, very fair and peaceful and, under the rule of the moonlight, like an enchanted land.
When Mansel waked us, I found to my surprise that it was half past six, but it seemed that at some small station we had waited nearly an hour, because of some disorder a few miles ahead.
“Which is all to the good,” said Mansel, “for now, when we get to Lass, there will be more people about and we ought to be able to follow without being seen.”
Then he arranged that, until Rouse was off the platform, we should not leave the train, and that, once outside the station, we should immediately disperse: we were then to ignore one another and each in his own way contrive to keep Rouse in view. I was not to follow for more than a quarter of a mile, but was then to return to the station and wait for Carson to come.
Rough as were these proposals, I believe they would have wholly succeeded, had not Fortune served us a very ill turn: for Rouse left the train as casually as though he travelled to Lass every day of his life and made his way out of the station without, so far as I saw, once looking behind.
He paused outside for a moment, to light a cigarette, and then started down the short road which served the station alone. The road was planted with lime trees six paces apart, and, as he walked down the middle, we had but to keep to the path to be out of his view. Mansel and I took the left path, and Hanbury the right.
All of a sudden, Mansel who was leading, stopped dead.
I instantly looked at Rouse, still sauntering carelessly on, with his head in the air, as yet completely unconscious of the two Rolls stealing towards him, perhaps fifty paces away.
In a flash I knew what had happened.
The delay on the line had put a spoke in our wheel, and Carson, with Bell behind him, had caught up the train.
Even as I looked, my gentleman saw the two cars.
For an instant he faltered. Then he glanced over his shoulder and walked straight on.
As they approached, he spread out ridiculous arms, and, when Carson stopped, he stepped abreast of the car and engaged him in talk, laughing and stamping and stooping and slapping his thighs, as though he found the encounter a matter of infinite jest, and completely ignoring the approach of a small motor bus. This had met our train, in the hope, I suppose, of custom for some hotel, and, the hope proving vain, was at last going empty away.
Of the little road the Rolls took more than its share, and, since Rouse with his antics occupied all that was left, the bus could not have gone by without running him down. This it very nearly did, for its driver did not seem to believe that the man would not budge: but, in spite of all manner of warnings, Rouse held his ground to the last, so that the driver was forced to clap on his brakes and actually lock his wheels to let the other get clear. Some argument followed, and this seemed natural enough; but, before it was over, Rouse took his seat by the driver and under the eyes of us all was rapidly driven away.
Maybe we were fools, but the thing was cleverly done.
The cars were facing the station and were far too long to be at all quickly turned: the town lay five hundred yards distant, and no other car was in sight.
Too late Rowley leapt from his seat and flung up the road, in a vain endeavour to mount the bus from behind: too late Carson spurted for the station, to turn in the yard: only, as the bus disappeared, a figure flashed out of the lime trees and into its dust. This was Hanbury: and, since Rouse could not have known that he was behind, I think we all
