The guide the old fellow had written showed very plainly his veneration for Gath: when he kept holiday, therefore, that he should visit the spur was natural enough: and though to walk seven miles to look at a castle wall may be the way of a zealot, I imagine his tastes were simple and his pleasures were few.
And so he had come to the spur to look upon Gath.
Finding the gate open, he had naturally seized the chance to make his way in and once more enjoy a prospect from which he had been lately debarred.
But, if I was not surprised, I was considerably moved.
Such was the emplacement of the castle, so thick was the wood that masked the spur and so lonely was the country round about that we had all come to ignore the chance of an outsider’s entry upon the scene. This was now, however, an accomplished fact. A respectable citizen of Lass, an intelligent man, well acquainted with Gath and with its ownership, was actually within the walls and must already have found the open gate and the absence of any custodian matters for serious remark. More. His eyes had only to light upon George Hanbury, Bell or myself, when his suspicions would be instantly quickened by that most lively curiosity which our use of his apartment at Lass and our strange and precipitate departure must have aroused.
And here it seemed that Fortune was at last inclining towards our part, for, while the bookseller’s presence could do us no harm, the last thing Rose Noble desired was a witness of what was afoot.
Now all this swept through my mind in a tenth of the time it has taken to set it down, but right on the heels of this valueless speculation came a fair, clean-cut idea, upon which, for once, I had the good sense to act without any hesitation or weighing of odds.
The bookseller had not seen me, but I stepped out into his view. He looked very much surprised, but, before he could speak, I beckoned to him to follow and, crossing to the opposite doorway, led the way to a corner below some stairs.
“Look at me well,” I whispered. “Have you ever seen me before?”
He replied directly that I was one of the strangers that had made some use of the parlour above his shop.
“That’s right,” said I. “And now, before I tell you how and why I come to be here, answer me this. Would you like to help a lady who goes in danger of death?”
“I would indeed,” said the bookseller stoutly enough.
“Then listen,” said I.
As shortly as ever I could, I told him a few of the facts. He heard me solemnly, with his big, blue eyes on my face.
“So you see,” I said, in the end, “it’s a business of life and death. You’re not safe here. No one is: but a stranger, least of all. I’d be very glad of your help, but I’m bound to tell you that the only help you can give will involve you in a terrible risk.”
“Thank you,” said the bookseller politely. “Please tell me what I may do.”
His calm firmness of purpose took me by storm: of pure gratitude I could have gone on my knees.
“In the first place,” said I, “you’re a doctor—remember that. A doctor out for the day. Hanbury met you in the road at the end of the drive. You can describe him, can’t you? The man who bought Alison’s Europe and borrowed your coat and hat. Very well. He asked you if you knew of a doctor, and when he heard you were one he begged you to come here at once. He said that you’d find the gate open and told you how to get to the southeast tower. There, he said, was a man very grievously hurt.
“Now that is the tale you will tell, when you get to the room: but, before you get so far, I think the fat man you find there will have rushed upstairs to the roof. The ‘open gate’ will fetch him, if nothing else. If he stays where he is, please pretend to examine the man who is lying hurt: take off his coat and shirt and feel his spine: then announce that his back is broken, but that, if he lies flat and still, he may possibly live. Then ask the fat man if he will kindly see if your son has arrived: say that he was to follow you here as soon as he’d changed his tire. That’ll move the fat man all right. You see we’ve got to get him out of the tower.”
“Sir,” said the bookseller gravely, “it shall be done.”
“It’s a dangerous game,” said I. “If he thinks that you’re lying, the fat man will shoot you dead.”
The old fellow smiled.
“I am old,” he said simply. “And lonely. Since my wife was dead, I do not much value my life. But you and your lady are young. … And, besides, I do not think he will think I am lying—this fat man of yours.”
“He’s pretty shrewd,” said I.
“Let us go, please,” said the bookseller, settling his hat on his head. …
We had almost reached the guardroom and I had stopped to listen for any sound, when I heard the scamper of feet upon the roof.
The murder was out, and Punter or Bunch was running to shut the gate.
Mercifully the door of the bedroom in which I had hidden Casemate was less than ten paces away, so I opened it quickly and thrust the bookseller in. As I closed it behind me, I heard a flurry of footsteps and the clack of the guardroom wicket flung back against the wall.
Now, as I have said, the guardroom’s floor was of stone; but the floor of the passage which followed was of oak boards that had been polished and highly waxed: and, since whoever was coming was running as fast as he could, I was not
