But worse was to come.
I had gone, I suppose, a mile in fear and trembling, and the road had begun to rise in a steady climb, when I peered round a bend, to see Casemate retracing his steps.
Now I had just covered a fairly long, straight reach of road, and, before I could have retreated, he would have had me in view. This was plainly the reason why he had gone about, for, if he was being followed, here was the very place to discover his man.
Frantically I looked round for cover, but there was none at all. On one hand an open meadow fell down abruptly to the level the road had left: on the other a high bank of earth rose into a crumbling cornice that overhung the way. Only an oak leaned out of the earthy wall and was thrusting a branch like a rooftree over the road.
I am a tall man, but heavy, and to this day I cannot tell how I managed to leap so high: but, if I am heavy, I was desperate, and, as I have found before, desperation is a remarkable goad.
Be that as it may, in an instant I had hold of the bough and a moment later was astride it, looking down upon the ground. I then fell forward and cautiously raised my feet, till I was lying along it and, though there was little foliage, pretty well hid. The branch was massive and rigid as any rock.
Casemate rounded the corner and passed below where I hung. Finding the road deserted, he stopped in his tracks and, after a long look, turned on his heel and began to walk back up the hill, whistling some air as he went. He paused for a moment beneath me, to take out a cigarette, and, as he did so, we both heard the sound of the horn of an oncoming car.
Now this meant nothing to me, for the horn was that of some car which was going to Lass, but Casemate stiffened like a pointer and stood with his ears pricked and a match in one of his hands and its box in the other. Indeed, so concerned was his demeanour, that I expected him every instant to take to his heels, though why he should fear some car which could hardly be one of ours I could not think.
The horn was not sounded again, but soon we heard a car coming at a high enough speed.
Casemate immediately whipped to the side of the road, and, taking his stand by the bend, peered anxiously round. The next moment he was out in the fairway, spreading and waving his arms as a signal to stop.
I heard the brakes clapped on, but the car was round the corner before it had come to rest.
Casemate came running back, and somebody put out a head.
“What is it?” said Rose Noble.
I was so much dumbfounded that I nearly fell down from the bough, and then I saw that the luck I had found so unkind a moment ago was playing clean into our hands.
“Somebody’s talking,” said Casemate. “She’s got word through to mother, and Big Willie’s at Lass.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then—
“How d’you know?” said Rose Noble.
“Jute,” said Casemate. “Last night they came for Big Willie and told him that she had made touch. Jute heard them say so. Big Willie was off like a cracker, and, when he was good and gone, Jute slipped up to the station and took the train.”
“And led him to Lass,” said Rose Noble. “Go on.”
“B-but—”
“Go on.”
“He’s there,” said Casemate doggedly. “I’ve seen him. Stuck up in the streets, with a Punch-and-Judy crowd round both of his cars.”
“Where’s Jute?”
“Lying low in the lodge.”
“Thought he’d done enough harm, I suppose?”
“He didn’t bring him,” said Casemate. “Big Willie’s—”
“Of course he brought him,” roared Rose Noble, bursting out of the car. “You snake-faced idiot, what do you take me for? ‘Got word through to mother.’ This isn’t Marlborough Street.” He slammed the door with a fury that shook the car. “By ⸻,” he added, using a dreadful oath, “wait till I get at Jute. I told him they’d try to bounce him and I made him swear never to move when Big Willie was out of sight. Never. Why did he come by train?”
“Car wouldn’t start,” said Casemate.
“And that never showed him?” raged Rose Noble.
Casemate essayed no answer, but only stared upon the ground, plainly resenting a trouncing which Jute had won, yet sullenly conscious that, by adopting Jute’s reading, he had put himself out of court.
Rose Noble ripped off his hat and mopped his face.
“Who was with Big Willie?” he demanded.
“Two of the servants,” said Casemate.
For a moment Rose Noble stood still, with his head in the air. Then he lowered his eyes and looked at Casemate.
I suppose there was that in his gaze which shocked the other, for he shrank back against the wall, protesting the truth of his words.
“Quite right,” purred Rose Noble, “quite right. You only saw two of the servants. I passed the third on the road five minutes ago.”
A moment later the car was being turned round.
I think this short colloquy must show how fine and swift a brain our principal enemy had. No matter how clogged, he had the truth free in an instant, and, though, when he passed him, he had not recognized Bell—and for that he can hardly be blamed, for he had seen him but once—the moment he learned that one servant was not with Mansel, he knew why the dirty cyclist was taking his subordinate’s road. That he made no mention at all of Hanbury or me, was, I confess, a considerable blow to my pride, but I fear he credited us with little cunning, but only a blunt pugnacity when it came to a fight.
Now whether this stung into action my mother wit I cannot
