Part 18 (1/2)

It was about two o'clock when d.i.c.k, who was a light sleeper, was roused by a shout for help, apparently from the drawing-room which was directly below his bedroom. Instantly he sprang out of bed, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up a revolver, rushed downstairs.

But he was just too late.

As he entered the brilliantly lighted drawing-room he caught sight through the open window of a heavy misshapen body disappearing into the gloom beyond the bright patch of light cast by the electric lamps on the lawn outside.

Renstoke lay on his back on the floor, dying beside his favourite chair.

Close by was the book he had been reading and on the carpet near it was his pipe, the tobacco still smouldering.

d.i.c.k knelt hastily by the side of his friend and sought frantically to revive him. But it was in vain. The young peer died in his arms. It was evident that he had been attacked without the slightest warning, and mercilessly strangled.

And in the side of his throat, just above the jugular vein, was a deep wound, horribly lacerated, from which the blood flowed in a heavy stream.

The Castle was speedily aroused, and in a few minutes half a dozen men were busily searching the surrounding country. But it was in vain--the mysterious a.s.sailant of the unfortunate Lord Renstoke had vanished completely.

The following day d.i.c.k, Jules, and Yvette, almost overcome with grief, were discussing the loss of their friend.

”There is some devilry at work,” d.i.c.k declared. ”And I shall never rest till it is cleared up, if I spend the rest of my life here.”

Yvette burst into a furious philippic against Erckmann. ”That man is at the bottom of it all,” she insisted.

”But, Yvette,” d.i.c.k remonstrated, ”we have no kind of evidence of that.”

”I don't care,” she replied vehemently, ”Erckmann knows all about it. I should like to choke it out of him,” she ended viciously in French.

”Well,” said Jules, ”we can't go to Lockie and accuse him. How about trying a trap of some kind?”

”We might do it in that way,” d.i.c.k admitted. ”But what kind of trap?”

Long and eagerly they discussed the matter, and at length a plan was evolved.

The next morning brought them a visit from Inspector Buckman, one of the ablest men of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard, to whom, utterly baffled, the police had very wisely applied for help. He was well known to all of them as a keen, capable man of infinite resource and undaunted courage.

Buckman listened closely while d.i.c.k ran over the story, putting in a keen question here and there.

”We have got to keep the real facts quiet,” he said at length.

”Erckmann must not suspect that we have the smallest inkling of the evidence of Lord Renstoke's death. I will fix that up with the coroner.”

It was an easy matter. Renstoke Castle was a remote spot, and while the affair, of course, could not be entirely concealed, it was a simple matter to keep the exact details secret. All the public learned was that Lord Renstoke had been attacked and murdered presumably by a burglar for whom a close search was being made.

But behind all and working in secret the keen brains of d.i.c.k, Yvette, Jules, and Buckman were busy.

Two or three nights later the word went round to the scattered farms that every single head of stock was to be driven in to the farms and rigidly confined in the buildings from dusk to daybreak. So far as they could ensure it not a single living thing was at large.

d.i.c.k's trap was arranged on the hill-side a mile from Renstoke.

Four inches above the ground, in a circle fifty yards in diameter, ran a thin electric wire supported at intervals on small insulated posts.

Just inside the circle, on the side away from Renstoke, a sheep was tethered to a strong stake. In the centre of the circle from a tall pole hung a powerful magnesium flash, electrically connected so that it would be at once exploded by any pressure on the encircling wire, and momentarily light up with day-time brilliance a large patch of the surrounding country.

As dusk fell, d.i.c.k, Yvette, Jules, and Buckman carefully crossed the wire and took up their positions in the centre of the circle, lying full length in the sheltering heather, and each with a revolver ready to hand. In a leash beside d.i.c.k lay Spot, his favourite Airedale, who could be trusted to give warning of the approach of any intruder, and afterwards to track him remorselessly.