Part 3 (1/2)

He was holding out a damaged sparking-plug.

I own a car and, being well acquainted with its intricacies, saw at once that what he said was true. Somebody--presumably while he was wandering about the lawns and back premises--must have lifted the bonnet and injured the plugs. There was no other solution. The car could not have travelled out from Oakham, or travelled at all, had that damage been done before.

We looked at each other, equally puzzled.

”You ain't been playing me a trick, sir?” he said suddenly, an expression of mistrust coming into his eyes.

”Oh, don't be a fool!” I answered irritably.

He turned sulky.

”Some one 'as, anyway,” he grunted. ”And it's just a chance I've some spare plugs with me.”

He produced his tool-box, rummaged among its contents with his filthy hands, discovered what he wanted, and adjusted them. Then he shut down the bonnet with a vicious bang and set his engine going.

He was about to step on to his seat, when simultaneously a sharp report a good way off and the ”zip” of a bullet close to us made us spring away in alarm.

Together, without uttering a word, we gazed up towards the wood on the hill, where the sound of the report had come from.

Another shot rang out. This time the bullet shattered the car headlight.

”Ah! G.o.d!” the driver gasped. ”Help! I--I--”

Poor fellow. Those were his last words. Almost as he uttered them there came a third report, and the driver, shot through the head, collapsed into a heap beside the car.

And then, what I saw as I turned sharply, sent a s.h.i.+ver through me.

I held my breath. What further mystery was there?

Surely some great evil had fallen upon the house of the Thorolds.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE NAME OF ”SMITHSON.”

A man was kneeling, facing me, on the outskirts of the wood on the hill, not a hundred yards away. His face was in shadow, and partly hidden by a slouch hat, so that I could hardly see it. The rifle he held was levelled at me--he was taking steady aim--his left arm extended far up the barrel, so that his hand came near the muzzle--the style adopted by all first-cla.s.s shots, as it ensures deadly accuracy.

I am bound to confess that I completely lost my nerve. I sprang to one side almost as he fired. I had just enough presence of mind left to pick up the driver in my arms--even at the risk of my life I couldn't leave him there--lift him into the car, and slam the door. Then I jumped on to the driving-seat, put in the clutch--in a perfect frenzy of fear lest I myself should be shot at the next instant--and the car flew down the avenue.

Twice I heard reports, and with the second one came the sound of a whistling bullet. But it went wide of the mark.

The lodge came quickly into view. It was well out of sight of the wood on the hill where the shots had been fired. I uttered an exclamation as I saw that the big white gate was shut. It was hardly ever shut.

Slowing down, I brought the car to a standstill within a few yards of the lodge, jumped out, and ran forward to open the gate.

It was fastened with a heavy chain, and the chain was securely padlocked.

Shouting failed to bring any one out of the lodge, so I clambered over the gate and knocked loudly at the door. But n.o.body answered, and, when I tried to open the door, I found it locked.

There seemed to be but one way out of the difficulty. I have said that I am strong, yet it needed all my strength to lift that heavy gate off its hinges. It fell with a crash back into the road, and I managed to drag it away to one side. Then starting the engine again, I set off once more for Oakham ”all out.”