eyes. Their shrieking and yelling was all over in a moment…Fawley himself fell sideways on to the platform of a smooth and shining cylindrical erection which was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There was nothing to which he could cling and almost at once he slid down on to the cement floor. Opposite him was the most astonished human being he had ever seen—a soldier, who had run to the assistance of the other two and was suddenly faced with the consciousness of Fawley’s amazing appearance.
“Sacré nom de Dieu!” he called out, wringing his hands. “What is it then that has arrived? Is it an earthquake? Who are you?”
“Never mind. Stay where you are. Don’t raise your hands.”
One last sobbing cry echoed from wall to wall of the passage. Fawley took one look under the tree and then turned his back.
“They are dead,” he said. “You cannot help them. Listen. Is this gallery Number Seven?”
The chasseur, incapable of speech, pointed to the wall. There it was—a great sprawling seven.
“Which is the way out?” Fawley asked.
The youth—he was scarcely more than a boy—was shivering so that words were almost impossible. He pointed in a certain direction. Fawley drew an automatic from his pocket.
“Look here,” he threatened, “if you have lied, I shall come back and shoot you.”
The chasseur pointed again. His face was white. He looked almost as though he had had a stroke. His head was bleeding where one of the boughs had struck him. The tree lay like a great destroying octopus all over the place. Only one thing seemed to have survived untouched. The great machine with its metal cylinders and huge dynamos, which might well have been some devilish contrivance of the nether world.
“Where do you come from?” the youth asked.
Fawley raised his weapon. He had completely recovered his self-control.
“No more questions,” he said curtly. “Give me your belt.”
The soldier obeyed. Fawley’s hand seemed as steady as a rock and the revolver, though small, was an ugly-looking affair.
“Put your hands out. Fold them together.”
Again the chasseur obeyed. Fawley tied them; then, leaning forward, he struck him lightly but firmly near the chin.
“That is for your good,” he said, as his victim stumbled backwards.
He turned away and crawled down the passage. There was no sentry but the wind had ceased its sobbing for a moment and from the road came the sound of voices and the hurrying of feet. Fawley, bent double, made his way through the rough piece of waste ground towards the edge of the precipice. Something seemed to have created an alarm and shots came from behind him to which he paid no attention. A bullet whistled over his head. He only smiled. At the edge of the precipice he steadied himself: six hundred feet to scramble. Well, he had done it before. He fell flat just in time to escape another bullet and then, with gloved hands and protected by his thick leather clothes, he commenced the wild descent. Sometimes his feet slipped and he heard the crashing of the small boulders and stones which he had dislodged. He felt himself falling through space but each time a bump in the ground, or a bush, or a young pine sapling saved him. Once he hung over an absolutely sheer precipice, his legs dangling in the air, the trunk of the tree he clasped cracking and splintering in his hands. He pulled himself up again, made a little détour and felt the ground rise beneath his feet. As he descended lower and lower, the wind and rain grew less, the cold decreased. The time came when he found himself standing upright on the solid earth. Below him long stretches of wood still lay like black smudges of fallen clouds, but for a time, at any rate, he had reached a rough path down which he was able to scramble without difficulty. He took one pull at his flask and, in a dark spot with trees all around, one quick glance at his compass with the help of his torch. A sparsely planted wood was a godsend to him. He swung himself from trunk to trunk of the trees, his feet secure in the thick accumulation of pine needles below. When he emerged, it was to face a flickering light from a small hamlet already astir. Before daybreak, he was in his car, clad in a rough knickerbocker suit, smoking a pipe, leaning nonchalantly back in his seat and already well on his way down the great descent to the sea.
* * * * *
Monsieur Carlotti, the very popular manager of the Hôtel de France, was taking his usual morning promenade in the lounge of the hotel when Fawley drove up and entered. He welcomed his returning guest with a beaming smile.
“Monsieur has found the weather inclement, I fear,” he remarked.
“Fiendish,” was the emphatic reply. “No more of your mountains for me, Monsieur Carlotti. I have finished with them. Cagnes may be dull golf but it will be good enough for me.”
Carlotti’s eyes twinkled with comprehension.
“The telephones have been busy this morning,” he observed. “There has been a great deal of disturbance and still is at the frontiers. The weather again, without a doubt.”
Fawley nodded.
“I shall not trouble the frontiers,” he confided. “A few quiet days in this warmth will suit me better.”
Carlotti bowed.
“It is good news for us,” he declared. “If by chance,” he added, as the two men neared the lift, “Monsieur should be in need of a golfing companion, there is a Mr. Krust here who would like a game.”
“Fix it up for me,” Fawley replied. “To-morrow or the next day—as soon as the weather gets decent.”
The little man remained below, smiling and bowing. Fawley mounted to his apartments upon the second floor. The valet, whom he met in the corridor, threw open the doors and shutters.
“There have been telephone enquiries for Monsieur,” he announced, pointing to some slips upon the table. “No letters.”
“A hot bath—quickly,” Fawley ordered. “As soon as you have turned the water on, find the waiter and order coffee—a large pot—café complet.”
The valet bustled off. Fawley strolled into the room twenty minutes later in his dressing gown, a different man. The coffee was steaming upon the table, a delicious fragrance was in the air. He ordered more rolls and butter. In the act of serving himself, he stopped abruptly. Upon his writing table, in a prominent position, was a blue envelope. He called to the valet.
“Henri,” he pointed out, “that letter was not on my table when I went to my bath a few minutes ago.”
“Certainly it was not, sir.”
“Who has been in the room?”
“No one, sir, except the waiter who brought the coffee.”
Fawley turned to the latter who had just reappeared.
“Did you bring that note?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“Non, Monsieur,” he replied. “I have not seen it before. Ten minutes ago when I first came it was not there.”
Fawley made no further remark.
