Part 35 (2/2)

There was an instant's stillness. Now footsteps could be heard crackling forward through the undergrowth. There came the sound of a heavy blow, a stifled cry, a dull thud as though a body had fallen heavily. What had happened? And what was happening? Helplessly I stared about me, striving in vain to pierce the blackness of the forest. I heard people moving close beside me, but no word was spoken.

Then suddenly someone touched me. The ropes which bound my wrists were being severed with a blunt instrument. Now my legs were being released.

Some fragments of rope dropped to the ground. _I was free!_

Nowhere was there any light, and still n.o.body spoke. Taking me by the arm, the man who had set me free led me forward through the darkness.

Now we were close to the car. Men were beside it, apparently very busy, though what they were engaged in doing I could not ascertain. And then, all at once, the road became flooded with light--the headlights of the car had been switched on simultaneously.

Almost immediately I saw what was happening. Several large bags had been placed inside the car, and others were being pushed in after them.

What did they contain? For the moment I was puzzled. Then suddenly the obvious truth flashed across me. The group of men--I could see them indistinctly in the darkness--must be poachers, and poaching out of season I knew to be an offence punishable in France with a very heavy sentence. There seemed to be five men engaged in handling the sacks, while a sixth stood looking on.

”_Entrez_” a voice beside me said suddenly. At the same instant I was gripped by the arm and pushed forward towards the car.

”Who fired that shot?” I exclaimed quickly, in French.

”I did--and saved your life,” the man who held me answered. ”Why?”

”And you killed him?”

”Yes.”

”The report sounded like a rifle shot.”

”It was a pistol shot. But what matters, so long as he is dead?”

”Have you his revolver? Did you pick it up?” I asked anxiously.

”Yes.”

”Show me both pistols.”

My thoughts were travelling with extraordinary rapidity. Rather to my surprise he handed the pistols to me without a word. Quickly I held them in the light cast by the car's lamps and hurriedly examined them. Yes, both were weapons of the same calibre, both took the same cartridges.

Below the barrel of Gastrell's revolver was the small electric lamp from which the light had shone on to my face. I gripped the pistol tightly and the light shone out again.

”I will return here in a moment,” I said in French, as I moved away, for the man had released my arm.

With the help of the pistol glow-light I made my way back to the tree where a few minutes before I had been propped up, helpless. On the ground, close to the trunk, Gastrell's body lay huddled in a heap, a red spot in the middle of his forehead showing that death must indeed have been instantaneous. I had, however, no time for reflection. Quickly I thrust my hand into the dead man's pockets, one after another. All were empty--someone must already have gone through them. Glancing about me to make sure I was not observed, I hastily transferred to the dead man's pocket, from the inside pocket of my own coat, the letter which he himself had placed there not ten minutes before. Then I reb.u.t.toned his coat, picked up the bits of severed rope lying about--the ropes that previously had bound me--threw the pistol on to the ground close to the dead man's hand, and turned to retrace my steps. Suddenly I stopped. I had forgotten something. Picking up the pistol again I fired a shot into the air, then once more threw it down. My ruse would have proved truly futile had Gastrell's body been discovered, shot through the head, a letter in his pocket pointing directly to suicide, and a revolver on the ground--still loaded in every chamber!

A minute later I was hustled into the car, squeezed tightly between several men. On the floor of the car were a number of large sacks, exhaling an odour none too savoury. The door was slammed, I saw a figure step on to the driving seat, and once more the powerful car shot out into the night, its search-lamps lighting up the road as far as we could see.

For a while n.o.body spoke.

”I don't know who you are,” I said at last in French, breaking the silence, ”but I am most grateful to you for saving my life.”

Still n.o.body uttered.

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