Part 29 (1/2)

Sergeant Tolkeith hazarded the opinion that there were men at Scotland Yard at that moment who could drive--he looked round the room in search of some strange or t.i.tanic vehicle to which the prowess of Scotland Yard would be equal--”Well, Anything.”

”A man who knows the roads,” continued B. ”Though, for that matter, it's a simple enough route--the Portsmouth road all the way to Kingston, and then across to Willesden. You had better avoid Guildford, by the way, coming back. Now, what other a.s.sistance will you require?”

”How many are there likely to be in the car, sir?”

”No one but Salt, I am informed. He has been touring alone for a week past, at all events.”

”In that case, sir, we had better take a couple of men from Guildford and drive towards Farnham. We can wait at a suitable place in the road and make the arrest. Then when the irons are on I shall need no one beyond the driver I take with me. The two local men--you'll want Mr Salt's _chauffeur_ detained for a few hours, I suppose, sir?”

”Yes, certainly; until you are well on your way. And any one else who may happen to be in the car. I will give you authority covering that.”

”The two local men can take him, or them, back to Guildford--it will be dark by the time they get there--for detention while enquiries are being made. Then if a plain-clothes man meets me at Willesden we can go on, and our driver can take the car on to Scotland Yard.”

”You see no difficulty throughout?” said B. anxiously. The inspector a.s.sured him that all seemed plain sailing. It was not his place to foresee difficulties in B.'s plans.

”Then I shall expect you to report to me from Stafford about 10.30 to-night that everything is satisfactory. Let me impress on you as a last word the need of care and _unconcern_ in this case. It must be successfully carried out, and to do that there must be no fuss or publicity.”

”Sergeant,” said Detective-Inspector Moeletter, when they were outside, ”between ourselves, can you tell me this: why they think it necessary to have three mute gentlemen looking on while we arrange a matter of this sort?”

”Between ourselves, sir,” replied Sergeant Tolkeith, looking cautiously around, ”it's my belief that it's come to this: that they are all half-afraid of themselves and can't trust one another.”

”D.,” remarked C., as they left together a few minutes later, ”does anything strike you about B.?”

”It strikes me that he looks rather like an undertaker's man when he is dressed up,” replied D.

”Does it not strike you that he is _afraid_?”

”Oh,” admitted D., stroking his wounded cheek, ”that's quite possible.

So am I, for that matter.”

”So may we all be in a way,” said C.; ”but it is different with him. I believe that he is in a _blue funk_. He's fey, and he's got Salt on the brain. Just remember that I venture on this prophecy: if Salt through any cause does not happen to get arrested, B. will throw up the sponge.”

The office of the Unity League in Trafalgar Chambers was little more than an empty hive now. The headquarters of the operations had been transferred to the colony at Hanwood, and most of the staff had followed. With the declaration of the coal war, an entirely different set of conditions had come into force. The old offices had practically become a clearing house for everything connected with the League, and the high tide of active interest swept on elsewhere.

Miss Lisle remained, a person of some consequence, but in her heart she sighed from time to time for a sphere of action ”down another little lane.”

On the afternoon of the 13th of January she returned to the office about half-past three, and going to the instrument room unlocked the telescribe receiver-box and proceeded to sort the dozen communications which it contained--the acc.u.mulation of an hour--before pa.s.sing them on to be dealt with. Most fell into clearly-defined departments at a glance. It was not until she reached the last, the earliest sent, that she read it through, but as she read that her whole half-listless, mechanical manner changed. With the first line apathy fell from her like a cloak; before she had finished, every limb and feature conveyed a sense of tingling excitement. In frantic haste she dragged the special writing materials across the table towards her, dashed off a sprawling, ”Stop Mr Salt at any cost.--LISLE,” and flashed it off to the League agency at Farnham.

A couple of minutes must pa.s.s before she could get any reply. She picked up the cause of her excitement, and for the second time read the message it contained:

”If you want to keep your Mr Salt from being arrested on a charge of murder, warn him that Inspector Moeletter from Stafford will be waiting for him on the road between Farnham and Guildford at three o'clock this afternoon with a warrant. No one believes in it, but he will be taken on in his motor to Willesden, and on to Stafford by the 7.30, and kept out of the way for a week while things have time to happen at Hanwood. There will be just enough evidence to get a remand, as there was to get a warrant. This is from a friend, who may remind you of it later and prove who he is by this sign.”

The letter finished with a rough drawing of a gallows and a broken rope.

It was written in a cramped, feigned hand and addressed to Sir John Hampden. It might have been lying in the box for an hour.

The telescribe bell gave its single note. Irene opened the box in feverish dread. An exclamation of despair broke from her lips as some words on the paper stood out in the intensity of their significance even before she took the letter from the box.

This was what Farnham replied: