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Page 76
A cold drop of rain fell upon my face.
"Oh, hell!" I cried, "it's beginning to rain!"
And thus we set out upon our journey.
* * * * *
It was a nightmare tramp. The rain never ceased. By day we lay in icy
misery, chilled to the bone in our sopping clothes, in some dank ditch
or wet undergrowth, with aching bones and blistered feet, fearing
detection, but fearing, even more, the coming of night and the
resumption of our march. Yet we stuck to our programme like Spartans,
and about eight o'clock on the third evening, hobbling painfully along
the road that runs from Cleves to Calcar, we were rewarded by the sight
of a long massive building, with turrets at the corners, standing back
from the highway behind a tall brick wall.
"Bellevue!" I said to Francis, with pointing finger.
We left the road and climbing a wooden palisade, struck out across the
fields with the idea of getting into the park from the back. We passed
some black and silent farm buildings, went through a gate and into a
paddock, on the further side of which ran the wall surrounding the
place. Somewhere beyond the wall a fire was blazing. We could see the
leaping light of the flames and drifting smoke. At the same moment we
heard voices, loud voices disputing in German.
We crept across the paddock to the wall, I gave Francis a back and he
hoisted himself to the top and looked over. In a moment he sprang
lightly down, a finger to his lips.
"Soldiers round a fire," he whispered. "There must be troops billeted
here. Come on ... we'll go further round!"
We ran softly along the wall to where it turned to the right and
followed it round. Presently we came to a small iron gate in the wall.
It stood open.
We listened. The sound of voices was fainter here. We still saw the
reflection of the flames in the sky. Otherwise, there was no sign or
sound of human life.
The gate led into an ornamental garden with the Castle at the further
end. All the windows were in darkness. We threaded a garden path leading
to the house. It brought us in front of a glass door. I turned the
handle and it yielded to my grasp.
I whispered to Francis:
"Stay where you are! And if you hear me shout, fly for your life!"
For, I reflected, the place might be full of troops. If there were any
risk it would be better for me to take it since Francis, with his
identity papers, had a better chance than I of bringing the document
into safety.
I opened the glass door and found myself in a lobby with a door on the
right.
I listened again. All was still. I cautiously opened the door and
looked in. As I did so the place was suddenly flooded with light and a
voice--a voice I had often heard in my dreams--called out imperiously:
"Stay where you are and put your hands above your head!"
Clubfoot stood there, a pistol in his great hand pointed at me.
"Grundt!" I shouted but I did not move.
And Clubfoot laughed.
CHAPTER XVII
FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE
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