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Page 89
The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past twelve. Funny, how my
eyes kept coming back to that clock! There was a smell of warm gunpowder
in the room, and the autumn sunshine, struggling feebly through the
window, caught the blue edges of a little haze of smoke that hung lazily
in the air by the desk in the corner. How close the room was! And how
that clock face seemed to stare at me! I felt very sick....
Lord! What a draught! A gust of icy air was raging in my face. The room
was still swaying to and fro....
I was in the front seat of a car beside Francis, who was driving. We
were fairly flying along a broad and empty road, the tall poplars with
which it was lined scudding away into the vanishing landscape as we
whizzed by. The surface was terrible, and the car pitched this way and
that as we tore along. But Francis had her well in hand. He sat at the
wheel, very cool and deliberate and very grave, still in his officer's
uniform, and his eyes had a cold glint that told me he was keyed up to
top pitch.
We slackened speed a fraction to negotiate a turn off to the right down
a side road. We seemed to take that corner on two wheels. A thin church
spire protruded from the trees in the centre of the group of houses
which we were approaching so furiously. The village was all but
deserted: everybody seemed to be indoors at their midday meal, but
Francis slowed down and ran along the dirty street at a demure pace. The
village passed, he jammed down the accelerator and once more the car
sprang forward.
The country was flat as a pancake, but presently the fields fell away a
bit from the road with boulders and patches of gorse here and there. The
next moment we were slackening speed. We drew up by a rough track which
led off the road and vanished into a tangle of stunted trees and scrub
growing across the yellow face of a sand-pit.
Francis motioned me to get out, and then sprang to the ground himself,
leaving the engine throbbing. His face was grey and set.
"Stay here!" he whispered to me. "You've got your pistol? Good. If
anybody attempts to interfere with you, shoot!" He dashed into the
tangle and was swallowed up. I heard a whistle, and a whistle in answer,
and a minute later he appeared again helping Monica through the thick
undergrowth.
Monica looked as pretty as a picture in her dark green shooting suit
and her muffler. She was as excited as a child at its first play.
"A car!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Francis, I'll sit beside you!"
My brother glanced at his watch.
"Twenty to one!" he murmured. He had a hunted look on his face. Monica
saw it and it sobered her.
They got up in front, and I sat in the body of the car.
"Hang on to that!" said Francis, handing me over a leather case. I
recognized it at a glance. It was Clubfoot's dispatch-box. Francis was
thorough in everything.
Once more we dashed out along the desolate country roads. We saw hardly
a soul. Houses were few and far between and, save for an occasional
greybeard hoeing in the wet fields or an old woman hobbling along the
road, the countryside seemed dead. In the cold air the engine ran
splendidly, and Francis got every ounce of horse-power out of it.
On we rushed, the wind in our ears, the cold air in our faces, until we
found ourselves racing along an avenue of old trees that led straight as
an arrow right into the heart of the forest. It was as silent as the
grave: the air was dank and chill and the trees dripped sorrowfully into
the brimming ruts of the road.
We whizzed past many tracks leading into the depths of the forest, but
it was not until the car had eaten up some five kilometres of the main
road that Francis slowed to a halt. He consulted a map he pulled from
his pocket, then glanced at his watch with puckered brow.
"I had hoped to take the car into the forest," he said, "but the roads
are so soft we shan't get a yard. Still we can but try."
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