he seemed ignorant of it.
Next second, my suspicions being aroused, I sprang down, and crying:
“Look here, old fellow! I fancy you’ve made a mistake!” I struck him familiarly upon the back.
His hump was soft! In that instant I detected him as an impostor – a Scotland Yard detective – without a doubt!
Fortunately for me my brain acts quickly. But it was not so quick as his. He gave a shrill whistle, and in a flash from nowhere three of his colleagues appeared. They ran around the car to hold it up.
For a few seconds I found myself in serious jeopardy.
I sprang into the driver’s seat, switched on the self-starter, and just as one of the detectives tried to mount beside me, I threw down among my assailants a little dark brown bomb the shape of an egg, with which Rayne had provided me in case of emergency.
It exploded with a low fizz and its fumes took them aback, allowing me to shoot away over the bridge and down into Bristol, much wiser than when I had arrived.
The arrangement of that password in itself showed how cleverly Rudolph Rayne was foresighted in all his plans. He always left a loophole for escape. Surely he was a past-master in the art of criminality, for his fertile brain evolved schemes and exit channels which nobody ever dreamed of.
The squire of Overstow, who was regarded by the wealthy county people of Yorkshire as perfectly honest in all his dealings, and unduly rich withal, attracted to his table some of the most exclusive hunting set, people with titles, as well as the parvenus “impossibles” who had bought huge places with the money made out of the war. The “County” never dreamed of the mysterious source of Rudolph Rayne’s unlimited income.
After traveling through a number of deserted streets in Bristol, I at last found myself upon a high road with a signpost which told me that I was on my way to Wells, that picturesque little city at the foot of the Mendip Hills. So, fearing lest I might be followed, I went “all out” through Axbridge and Cheddar, until at last I came to the fine old cathedral at Wells, which I knew quite familiarly. Near it was the Swan Hotel, at which, after some difficulty, I aroused the “boots,” secured a room, and placed the car in the garage.
It was then nearly half-past three in the morning, and my only object in taking a room was to inform Rayne by telephone of my narrow escape. Rayne was remaining the night at Half Moon Street, while Lola and Madame Duperré were at the Carlton. We had all come up from Overstow a couple of days before, and two secret meetings had been held at Half Moon Street.
Of the nature of the plot in progress I was in entire ignorance. They never let me completely into their plans; indeed, I only knew their true import when they were actually accomplished.
The half-awake “boots” at the Swan indicated the telephone, and a quarter of an hour later I was speaking to Rayne in his bedroom in London. Very guardedly I explained how nearly I had been trapped, whereupon I heard him chuckle.
“A very good lesson for you, Hargreave!” he replied. “Our friends are apparently on the watch, so get back to London as soon as you can. You’ll be here at breakfast-time. Leave the car at Lloyd’s and come along to me. Good luck to you!” he added, and then switched off.
The Lloyd’s garage he mentioned was in Bloomsbury, a place kept for the accommodation of motor-thieves. Many a car which disappeared quickly found its way there, and in a few hours the engine numbers were removed and fresh ones substituted, while the bodies were repainted and false number-plates attached.
As I put down the telephone receiver, it suddenly occurred to me that already the Bristol police might have telephoned a description of the car along the various roads leading out of the city. Therefore it would be too risky to remain there. Hence, as though in sudden decision, I paid the “boots” for my bed, and five minutes later was again on the road speeding towards London.
I chose the road to Salisbury, and after “blinding” for half an hour, I stopped and put on the false number-plates and license with which Rayne always provided me.
It was as well that I did so, for in the gray morning as I went through Salisbury a police-sergeant and a constable hailed me just as I turned into St. John Street, near the White Hart, calling upon me to stop. I could see by their attitude that they were awaiting me, therefore pretending not to hear I quickened my pace and, knowing the road, soon left the place behind me.
Again, in a village some ten miles farther on, a constable shouted to me as I continued my wild flight, hence it seemed apparent that a cordon had been formed around me, and I now feared that to enter Winchester would be to run right into the arms of the police.
The only way to save myself was to abandon the car and get back to London by rail. As I contemplated this I was already passing beside the high embankment of the South Western Railway, where half a mile farther on I found a little wayside station. Therefore I turned the car into a small wood, and destroying my genuine license and hiding the genuine number-plate, I took the next train to Winchester, and thence by express to Waterloo after a very wild and adventurous night. That I had been within an ace of capture was palpable. But why?
I was in the service of the man who controlled that vast criminal organization which the police of Europe were ever trying to break up. But why should I be sent to meet the mysterious hunchback Tarrant on Clifton Bridge?
“There seemed to have been a little flaw in our plans, Hargreave,” said the alert, good-looking man as I sat with him in his cosy chambers in Half Moon Street that morning. “The police evidently got wind of the fact that old Morley was meeting you, and Benton tried to impersonate him. I know Benton. He’s always up against me. He might have succeeded had he made the hump on his back a hard one, eh?” he laughed, as though rather amused than otherwise.
“But he didn’t know the password,” I remarked in triumph.
“No! It was fortunate for you that I had arranged it with old Morley,” said the man with the master-mind. “One must be ever wary when one treads crooked paths, you know. The slightest slip – and the end comes! But, at any rate, last night’s adventure has sharpened your wits.”
“And it has cost us the ‘A. C.’!” I remarked.
“Bah! What’s a motor-car more or less when one is working a big thing!” he exclaimed. “Never let ideas of economy stand in your way, or you’ll never make a fortune. In order to make money you must always spend money.”
I often recollected that adage of his in later days, when the pace grew even hotter.
Rayne paused for a few minutes. Then he said:
“I’ve already heard from old Morley on the telephone half an hour ago. He was on the bridge and watched the fun. Then he discreetly withdrew and went back to his hotel in Clifton. He declares that you acted splendidly.”
“I’m much gratified by his testimonial,” I said.
“I’ve arranged that he shall meet you to-night here in London – outside the Three Nuns Hotel at Aldgate. Go to Lloyd’s and get a car. At half-past seven it will be dark. Drive up, go into the bar and have a drink. You’ll find him there and recognize him by his deformity. Outside he will mention the password and you will drive him where he directs. That’s all!”
And the man who had, on engaging me, so particularly wanted to know if I could sing, and had never asked me to do so, dismissed me quite abruptly, as was his habit. His quick alertness, keen shrewdness and sharp suspicion caused him to speak abruptly
