of main roads and lanes in a rural district at the dead hour of the night, yet he felt himself securely caged as some creature of the jungle trapped in a pit.
Crossing Jackson's farmyard, not without disturbing a dog just quieting down after the preceding racket, he hurried into the village street, having made up his mind to face the inevitable and arouse the garage keeper. By the irony of fate he passed the cottage in which Police Constable Farrow was lying asleep and utterly unaware of the prevalent excitement, to join in which he would have kept awake all that night and the next.
Then the turn of Fortune's wheel befriended Fenley again. Outside a house stood Dr. Stern's car, a closed-in runabout in which both the doctor and his chauffeur were sheltered from inclement weather. The chauffeur was lounging on the pavement, smoking a cigarette, and Fenley, of course, recognized him. His heart leaped. Let him be bold now, and he might win through. A handkerchief wiped some of the blood off his face where the skin had been broken by the trees, and he avoided the glare of the lamps.
"Hello, Tom," he said, "where is the doctor?"
"Inside, sir," with a glance toward an upper room where a light shone. "What's happened at The Towers, sir? Was it shooting I heard a while since?"
"Yes. A false alarm, though. The police thought they had found some suspicious character in the grounds."
"By jing, sir, did they fire at him?"
Fenley saw that the story was weak, and hastened to correct it.
"No, no," he said. "The police don't shoot first. That was my brother, Robert. You know what a harebrained fellow he is. Said he fired in order to make the man double back. But that is a small matter. Can I have one word with Dr. Stern?"
"I'll see, sir," and the chauffeur went to the house.
Furneaux had estimated Hilton Fenley correctly in ascribing to him the quality of cold-bloodedness. Ninety-nine men among a hundred would have appropriated the motor car then and there, but Fenley saw by waiting a minute and displaying the requisite coolness he might succeed in throwing his pursuers off the trail for some hours.
Stern came. It chanced that he was watching a good patient through a crisis, and would be detained until daybreak.
"Hello, Hilton," he cried. "What's up now, and what's the racket in the park?"
Fenley explained, but hurried to the vital matter.
"My car is out of action," he said. "I was going to the Easton garage to hire one when I saw yours standing here. Lend it to me for a couple of hours; there's a good fellow. I'll pay well for the use of it."
"Pay? Nonsense! Jump in! Take Mr. Fenley where he wants to go, Tom. Where to first, Hilton?"
"St. Albans. I'm exceedingly obliged. And look here, Stern, I insist on paying."
"We can settle that afterwards. Off with you. I'll walk home, Tom."
Away sped the car. Running through Easton, Fenley saw two policemen stationed at a cross-road. They signaled the car to stop, and his blood curdled, but, in the same instant, they saw the chauffeur's face; the other occupant was cowering as far back in the shadow as possible.
"Oh, it's Dr. Stern," said one. "Right, Tom. By the way, have you seen anything of——"
"Go on, do!" growled Fenley, drowning the man's voice. "I'm in a vile hurry."
That was his last real hairbreadth escape—for that night, at any rate, though other thrills were in store. The chauffeur was greatly surprised when bidden to go on from St. Albans to London, and take the High Barnet road to the City; but Fenley produced a five-pound note at the right moment, and the man reflected that his master would not hesitate to oblige a wealthy client, who evidently meant to make good the wear and tear on the car.
In about an hour Fenley alighted on the pavement opposite the firm's premises in Bishopsgate Street. If a policeman had chanced to be standing there the fugitive would have known that the game was up, but the only wayfarers in that part of the thoroughfare were some street cleaners.
Now that he saw a glimmer of light where hitherto all was darkness, he was absolutely clear-brained and cool in manner.
"Wait five minutes," he said. "I sha'n't detain you longer."
He let himself in with a master key, taken from his dead father's pockets earlier by Tomlinson. Going to the banker's private office, he ransacked a safe and a cabinet with hasty method. He secured a hat, an overcoat, an umbrella and a packed suitcase, left there for emergency journeys in connection with the business, and was back in the street again within less than the specified time.
His tongue clave to the roof of his mouth when he found a policeman chatting with the chauffeur, but the man saluted him with a civil "Good morning!"
In the City of London, which is deserted as a cemetery from ten o'clock at night till six in the morning, the police keep a sharp eye on waiting cabs and automobiles between these hours, and invariably inquire their business.
This constable was quite satisfied that all was well when he saw Mr. Hilton Fenley, whom he knew by sight. In any event, the flying murderer was safer than he dared hope in that place and at that time. The Roxton telephonic system was temporarily useless in so far as it affected his movements; for a fire had broken out at The Towers, and the flames of the burning roof had been as a beacon for miles around during the whole of the time consumed by the run to London.
CHAPTER XVI
The Close of a Tragedy
Winter was in the Quarry Wood and feeling his way but trusting to hands and feet when he heard, and soon saw, Furneaux and the two constables coming toward him. The little detective held the electric torch above his head, and was striding on without looking to right or left. The bitterness of defeat was in his face. Life had turned to gall and wormwood. As the expressive American phrase has it, he was chewing mud.
The Superintendent smiled. He knew what torment his friend was suffering.
"Hello, there!" he said gruffly, and the three men jumped, for their nerves were on edge.
"Oh, it's you, Napoleon," yelped Furneaux. "Behold Soult and his army corps, come to explain how Sir John Moore dodged him at Corunna."
"You've lost your man, then?"
"Botched the job at the moment of victory. And all through a rope end."
"Tush! That isn't in your line."
"Must I be lashed by your wit, too? The rope was applied to me, not to Fenley."
"You don't mean to say, sir," broke in one of the astounded policemen, "that you think Mr. Hilton killed his own father!"
"Was it you who got that punch in the tummy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, save your breath. You'll want it when the muscles stiffen. 'Cré nom d'un pipe! To think that I, Furneaux of the Yard, should queer the finest pitch I ever
