“I don’t care what it looks like,” said Mansel. “But I think you may as well know that I’m pressed for time: and, if you elect to be hanged, I shall have less still, because it’ll take two hours to dig you a grave.”
“Rake it out,” said Jute sharply. “I know your shape. You can wear a gun on your back side, but it’ll never fit. You’re out of your depth, Mansel: and, if you take my advice, you’ll kick for the shore. Your job’s to pay and be damned. We’ve got your girl, and—”
“Carson,” said Mansel, “get a rope on that bough. Timber hitch on the wood, slip knot the other end.”
For a moment the servants spoke together. Then Bell was on Rowley’s shoulders and up in the tree, and Carson was down in a gully, with a knife in his hand. The next minute he reappeared, with a coil of rope on his arm. …
I knew that Mansel was bluffing, for he was not a hard man. He would have killed Rose Noble, for he was the head of the corner, and, with his death, the conspiracy would have gone. He would have killed anyone whose death would materially help him to reach Adèle. But a spy that, when taken, refused to open his mouth, was as safe in Mansel’s hands as a priest on his altar steps. I knew he would never hang Jute, though God knows he had just cause. Mansel was bluffing: and I was greatly afraid that the fellow would call his bluff.
Mansel returned to Jute.
“As I said, I’ll give you one lie. A refusal counts as a lie. Assume you’re on the ramparts above the gateway. How would you go from there to where Mrs. Pleydell lies?”
After a long silence—
“Which way am I facing?” said Jute sullenly.
“You are facing the wood.”
Jute shut his eyes.
“I turn to the right,” he said, “and go as far as the tower. Then I turn again and walk along by the wall. At the end of that I come to another tower. There’s a door there.”
“In the tower?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“You go through that and down steps till you come to a hall. Cross this to the door in front. That leads you into a room out of which runs a flight of stairs.”
“Yes.”
“Go down them, and they’ll bring you into her room.”
“Or the chapel?” said Mansel quietly.
Jute started violently. Then he glared at Mansel, with a working face.
“That’s one lie,” said Mansel.
Jute let himself go.
Out of a foam of imprecation odd sentences thrust, like timbers plunging in a flood.
“I’ll see you, you one-legged ⸻ … Put it over, you movie king … When next I meet you, I’ll cut my name on your back … We’ve got the goods, and, by ⸻, we’ll make you sweat … ‘Cut flowers’ won’t be in it … I’ll make you covet the day you played me up.”
Mansel put his pipe in his pocket and rose to his feet.
“You refuse to answer?”
A beastly light slid into Jute’s bloodshot eyes.
“My answer’s here,” he said, glancing down at his coat. “You were to have had it tonight, but, if you’re not too ‘pressed for time,’ perhaps you’ll look at it now.”
To this day I cannot tell what possessed the man.
I suppose he could not forgive Mansel for beating him at his own game: the thought that all the antics of Hannibal Rouse had been gravely accepted at exactly their proper worth, the memory of the trap into which he had so readily rushed and the bitter reception which he had met at Gath had, I think, inspired a hatred which knew no law. And now to be again confounded, outwitted and scornfully reduced had sent the blood to his head.
“What do you mean?” said Mansel.
“Try my inside pocket,” said Jute.
At a nod from Mansel I stepped to the fellow’s side and took a bulging envelope out of his coat.
“That’s my answer,” said Jute, “to all your backchat today. And, between you and me, Big Willie, I guess it’s pretty complete.”
Mansel ripped open the paper and took out a white silk blouse. …
I thought he would never move.
After a long time, very slowly he lifted his head.
“Call the servants,” he said, “and put the gag in his mouth.”
He spoke so low that I scarcely heard what he said: but, with his words, I knew that Jute’s hour was come.
For a moment the glade seemed misty, and my knees loose. Then my head cleared.
I saw Jute’s eyes follow Hanbury, as he stepped to the oak: then his gaze flashed to me, as I picked up the cotton waste. When I approached, he recoiled.
Sharply he looked at Mansel, and caught his breath.
“You—you’d never dare,” he said hoarsely.
At last we had the gag in his mouth …
“This man,” said Mansel, “is engaged in one of the vilest crimes. In his lust for money he is not content to play even that filthy game according to its filthy rules.” He held up the blouse. “He is trying to win by taking Mrs. Pleydell’s clothes from her back and advertising that outrage to make me throw in my hand. I do not think that a man who does that is fit to live.”
His eyes bulging out of his head, Jute fell upon his knees.
Mansel turned to Hanbury and me.
“You will return to the cars and wait there until I send.”
We did as he said.
Two hours later, Rowley brought us back to the dell.
Mansel was sitting smoking, with a distant look in his eyes: as he worked, jacketing a crowbar, Carson was whistling to himself: Bell was wiping a spade with a handful of grass.
The contented mien of the servants, if nothing else, showed that the world was the cleaner.
By half past one the next morning all of us, except Bell, were standing upon the roof of the Castle of Gath.
The night was starlit, but the moon had set.
Each of us carried a knife as well as a pistol and wore a coil of rope, like a sash.
