Once Aboard the Lugger Part 65

CHAPTER IX.

Disaster At Temple Colney.

I.

Three days have pa.s.sed.

That somewhat pale and haggard-looking young man striding, a basket beneath his arm, up the main street of Temple Colney is George. The villagers stop to stare after him; grin, and nudge into one another responsive grins, at his curious mannerisms. He walks in the exact centre of the roadway, as far as he can keep from pa.s.sers-by on either side. Approached by anyone, he takes a wide circle to avoid that person. Sometimes a spasm as of fear will cross his face and he will violently shake the basket he carries. Always he walks with giant strides. Every morning he shoots out of the inn where he is staying as though sped on the blast of some ghostly current of air; every evening, returning, he gives the impression of gathering himself together on the threshold, then goes bolting in at whirlwind speed. He is a somewhat pale and haggard young man.

The villagers know him well. He is the young hairs.h.i.+p inventor who has a private sitting-room at the Colney Arms. Certain of them, agog to pry his secret, followed him as he set out one day. They discovered nothing. For hours they followed; but he, glancing ever over his shoulder, pounded steadily on, mile upon mile--field, lane, high road, hill and dale. He never shook them off though he ran; they never brought him to standstill though indomitably they pursued. Towards evening the exhausted procession came thundering up the village street.

It was a very pale and haggard young man that bolted into the Colney Arms that night.

II.

Three days had pa.s.sed.

If George had the _Daily_ to curse for the miserable life of secrecy and constant agony of discovery that he was compelled to lead, he had it also to bless that his discovery by the red-headed Pinner boy had not long ago led to his being run to earth. In its anxiety to cap the satisfactory splash it was making over this Country House Outrage, the _Daily_ had overstepped itself and militated against itself. Those "Catchy Clues" were responsible. So cunningly did they inspire the taste for amateur detective work, so easy did they make such work appear, that Mr. Pinner, having thrashed silence into his red-headed son, kept that son's discovery to himself. As he argued it-- laboriously pencilling down "data" in accordance with the "Catchy Clue" directions,--as he argued it--if he communicated his knowledge to the _Daily_ or to the local police, if he put them--(the word does not print nicely) on the scent, ten to one they would capture the thief and secure the reward. No, Mr. Pinner intended to have the reward himself. Therefore he h.o.a.rded his secret; brooded upon it; dashed off hither and thither as the day's news brought him a Catchy Clue that seemed to fit his data.

But of this George knew nothing. Steeped in crime this miserable young man dragged out his awful life at Temple Colney: nightmares by night, horrors by day.

Every morning with trembling fingers he opened his _Daily_; every morning was shot dead by these lines or their equivalent:

COUNTRY HOUSE OUTRAGE.

FRESH CLUE.

CAT SEEN.

SENSATIONAL STORY.

After much groaning and agony George would force himself to know the worst; after swearing furiously through the paragraphs of stuffing with which Mr. Bitt's cunning young man skilfully evaded the point, would come at last upon the "fresh clue" and read with a groan of relief that, so far as the truth were concerned, it was no clue at all.

But the strain was horrible. All Temple Colney read the _Daily_; eagerly debated its "Catchy Clues."

Yet George could not see, he told himself, that he would better his plight by seeking fresh retreat. If the _Daily_ were to be believed, all the United Kingdom read it and discussed its Catchy Clues. He decided it were wiser to remain racked at Temple Colney rather than try his luck, and perhaps be torn to death, elsewhere.

Twice he had been moved to abandon his awful enterprise--in the train fleeing from the red-headed Pinner boy; pounding across country pursued by curious inhabitants of Temple Colney. On these occasions this miserable George had been minded to cry defeated to the circ.u.mstances that struck at him, to return to Herons' Holt with the cat whilst yet he might do so without gyves on his wrists.

But thought of his dear Mary hunted thought of this craven ending.

"I'll hang on!" he had cried, thumping the carriage seat: "I'll hang on! I'll hang on! I'll hang on!" he had thumped into the table upon his weary return to the inn on the day he had been followed.

He had cause for hope. When, on his second morning at Temple Colney, the _Daily_ had struck him to white agony by its newest headlines; cooling, he was able to find comfort in the news it gave to the world.

"On the advice of the eminent detective, Mr. David Brunger, who has the case in hand, the reward has been raised to 125 pounds."

"Whoop!" cried George, spirits returning.

III.

Three days had pa.s.sed.

Rain began to fall heavily on this afternoon. Usually--even had there been floods--George did not return to the inn until seven o'clock. The less he was near the abode of man the safer was his vile secret. But to-day, when the clouds told him a steady downpour had set in, he put out for his lodging before three. He was in high spirits. Success was making him very bold. At Temple Colney, thus far, no breath of suspicion had paled his cheek; at Herons' Holt events were galloping to the end he would have them go. That morning the _Daily_ had announced the raising of the reward to 150 pounds. True, the _Daily_ added that Mr. Marrapit had declared, absolutely and finally, that he would not go one penny beyond this figure. George laughed as he read.

In four days his uncle had raised the offer by fifty pounds; at this rate--and the rate would increase as Mr. Marrapit's anguish augmented --the 500 pounds would soon be reached. And then! And then!

Through the pouring rain George whistled up the village street, whistled up the stairs, whistled into the sitting--room. Then stopped his tune. The buoyant notes of triumph dwindled to a tuneless squeak, to a noiseless breathing--Bill Wyvern, seated at a table, sprung to meet him.

"What ho!" cried Bill. "They told me you wouldn't be in before seven!

What ho! Isn't this splendid?"

George said in very hollow voice: "Splendid!" He put the basket on a chair; sat on it; gave Bill an answering, "What ho!" that was cheerful as rap upon a coffin lid.

"Well, how goes it?" Bill asked eagerly.

George put out a hand. "Don't come over here, dear old fellow. I'm streaming wet. Sit down there. How goes what?"

"Why, the clue--your clue to this cat?"

"Oh, the clue--the clue. Yes, I'll tell you all about that. Just wait here a moment." He rose with the basket; moved to the door.

"What on earth have you got in that basket?" Bill asked.

"Eggs," George told him impressively. "Eggs for my uncle."

"You must have a thundering lot in a basket that size."

"Three or four hundred," George said. "Three or four hundred eggs."

He spoke in the pa.s.sionless voice of one in a dream. Indeed he was in a dream. This horrible contingency had so set him whirling that of clear thought he was incapable. Moving to his bedroom he thrust the basket beneath the bed; came out; locked the door; took the key; returned to Bill.

Bill came over and slapped him on the back. "Expect you're surprised to see me?" he cried. "Isn't this ripping, old man?"

"Stunning!" said George. "Absolutely stunning." He sank on a chair.

Bill was perplexed. "You don't look best pleased, old man. What's up?"

This was precisely what George wished to know. Terror of hearing some hideous calamity stayed him from putting the question. He gave a pained smile. "Oh, I'm all right. I'm a bit f.a.gged, that's all. The strain of this search, you know, the--"

"I know!" cried Bill enthusiastically. "I _know_. You've been splendid, old man. Finding out a clue like this and pluckily carrying it through all by yourself. By Jove, it's splendid of you!--especially when you've no reason to do much for your uncle after the way in which he's treated you. I admire you, George. By Gad, I _do_ admire you!"

"Not at all!" George advised him. "By no means, old fellow." He wiped his brow; his mental suffering was considerable.

"I say, I can see you're pretty bad, old man," Bill continued. "Never mind, I'm here to help you now. That's what I've come for."