Part 11 (2/2)

Mr. Lambert rejected the suggestion in extravagant language.

”You bandy words with me!” cried the Baron Hildebrand Anne of Ardrochan. ”Lambert of London, beware! Think, rash rogue, on your grinders! Hans and Jorgan, prepare the red-hot pincers! You have a quarter of an hour to reflect, Lambert.”

He flung himself off his pony, tethered it, strode down to the spring which trickled out of the hillside some forty yards away, and came back bearing a big jug full of water.

Mr. Lambert watched him in a bursting fury, at whiles scanning the empty hills with a raging eye. Suddenly light dawned on him: ”Are you the boy who stole the flying-machine?” he cried.

”You mind your own business!” said Tinker tartly; it was his cherished belief that he had borrowed the flying-machine.

Mr. Lambert understood at last with whom he had to deal; and the knowledge was not cheering. His angry stomach clamoured at him to come to terms, but his greed was still too strong for it.

”The time is up, Lambert of London!” said Tinker presently, very sternly. ”Will you ransom your base carcase?”

The money-lender turned his back on him with a lofty dignity.

”Ha! ha! Hunger shall tame that proud spirit!” said the Baron of Ardrochan.

Suddenly the money-lender heard the door opened, and he dashed for the ladder. He scrambled down it in time to hear the key turn again, but the jug of water stood inside. He took it up and drank a deep draught.

He had not known that he was so thirsty, never dreamed that water could be so appetising. He heard Tinker summon his men, and when he came back to the top of the tower, he was riding away. He watched him go with a sinking heart, and, since he was so empty, it had a good depth to sink to. Twice he opened his mouth to call him back, but greed prevailed.

The day wore wearily through. His spoilt stomach was now raving at him in a savage frenzy. Now and again he shouted, but less often as the afternoon drew on, for he knew surely that it was hopeless.

As the dusk fell, he found himself remembering Tinker's words about the headless woman and the redheaded man, and began to curse his folly in not having come to terms. At times his hunger was a veritable anguish.

This night was a thousand times worse than the night before. His hunger gave him little rest, and he awoke from his brief sleep in fits of abject terror, fancying that the redheaded man was staring in through the window; he saw his gashed throat quite plainly. He grew colder and colder, for he was too faint with hunger to stamp about the top of the tower. Later he must have grown delirious, for he saw the headless woman climbing up the ladder to the second story. It must have been delirium, for the figure he saw wore an ordinary nightrail, whereas the lady of the legend wore a russet gown. Some years later, as it seemed to him, the dawn came. It grew warmer; and he huddled into the pile of heather and slept.

He was awakened by a shout of ”Lambert of London, awake!” and tottering to the window, groaning, he beheld a cold grouse, a three-pound chunk of venison, two loaves, and a small bottle of whiskey neatly set out on a napkin. His mouth opened and shut, and opened and shut.

”The letter, rogue! Are you going to give me the letter?” shouted the Baron Hildebrand Anne fiercely.

Mr. Lambert tore himself from the window, and flung himself down on the heather, sobbing. ”Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!” he moaned, ”Fourteen hundred and fifty pounds!--and costs!” Suddenly his wits cleared . . . What a fool he'd been! . . . Why shouldn't he give the boy the letter, and wire countermanding his instructions? . . . Oh, he had been a fool!

He hurried to the window, and cried, ”Yes, yes, I'll give it you! Give me the paper. I've got a fountain pen!”

”You'd better have a drink of whiskey first; your hand will be too shaky to write your usual handwriting,” said the thoughtful Tinker, handing him the bottle along with the note-paper.

Mr. Lambert took a drink, and indeed it steadied his hand. Sure that he could make it useless, he wrote a careful and complete letter, lying at full length on the floor, his only possible writing table.

He scrambled up, and thrust it through the window, crying, ”Here you are! Let me out!”

Tinker spelled the letter carefully through, and put it into another letter he had already prepared to send to Sir Tancred's solicitors.

Then he handed the money-lender a thick venison sandwich, cut while he had been writing.

The tears ran down Mr. Lambert's face as his furious jaws bit into it.

”Don't wolf it!” said Tinker sternly. ”Starving men should feed slowly.”

Mr. Lambert had no restraint; he did wolf it. Then he asked for more.

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