Front matter (continued 4)

John Dale sighed and shook his head. He had forced himself to believe his daughter would forget. He had hoped, he had prayed, that she would have grown to see things in a reasonable way, and that this sudden promise of wealth would entirely change her point of view of life and love.

"Sir Reginald will never consent to his son marrying you," he replied harshly. "Why, Jim is little more than a boy, he doesn't know his own mind. He has already forgotten."

Marjorie smiled and said nothing more. She knew that she would see him in a few days' time, for he had applied for special leave on urgent private affairs, and he had written assuring her that he would be at the Hall again within twelve or fourteen days. He also hinted that he had important work in hand, that he might be doing some long distance flights on a new monoplane containing improvements, which were his own inventions, later on in the year. And he was down for early promotion.

The twelve days of waiting for her lover's return were long and weary ones. Blackthorn Farm was no longer the lonely, forgotten homestead, tucked away in a secluded part of the moorlands it had been formerly. Tourists and trippers thronged to look at the curious old farmhouse and to watch the works being erected a few hundred yards away. The place was over-run by workmen. All day long cars and lorries were rushing to and fro along the main road between Princetown and Post Bridge and Moretonhampstead. Solitude and loneliness, which had been so easy to find in the old days, disappeared. Marjorie had to take long walks before she knew she was safe from intrusion. She dreaded meeting friends and acquaintances more than the strangers who came to stare at her old home. She was not afraid of being cut or shunned. Instinct warned her, that now it was known vast wealth was hidden in the old mine, people would conveniently forget the shame that had fallen on her name. They would no longer think of her as the convict's sister, but as the future heiress. Shame made her want to hide from every one but her lover. Even from her father and the labourers and farm hands on the estate.

She was ashamed—not of herself or her brother, but of them!

At last, one Friday morning, a note arrived from her lover saying that he would reach Post Bridge Hall that evening. Of course the news of the happenings at Blackthorn Farm had been carried to him. He told Marjorie that his father would be absent on Friday evening, and asked her as soon as it was dark to go straight up to the Hall. He did not want anyone to know of his arrival.

So Marjorie said nothing. Her love had become too precious a thing to be talked about. Moreover, she did not want Despard to know of Jim's presence at the Hall. Feeling secure in the knowledge that John Dale approved of his love for Marjorie, Despard had pressed his suit on every available opportunity, giving her no peace. When he found it was useless to plead, he even threatened her.

But Marjorie laughed in his face.

"You can laugh now," he said savagely. "But I mean to make you my wife. I mean to win you. Not many men would have done for a woman what I've done for you. I've saved you from poverty, I've saved you from disgrace. Perhaps when we're married I can save your brother from prison."

She had always believed in her heart that Despard could have proved Rupert's innocence if he had chosen to speak at the trial. And these words returned to her a few days later with redoubled force.

Soon after the midday meal on Friday she left the farm and walked in the direction of Beardown, intending to pass the rest of the day there reading, until it was time to meet her lover at the Hall. When the fog came down, she had to slightly alter her plans, and she made for the main road as she knew she could not lose her way there. She was terrified lest the fog delayed Jim, and she hovered close to Post Bridge Hall until it began to grow dark. She scarcely heard the boom of the warning signal gun from Princetown, so intent was she on meeting the man she loved. It was just as the fog lifted and she was making her way by the long drive towards the Hall that a motor-car overtook her and pulled up, and Jim jumped to the ground.

They looked at one another, but spoke no word. Telling the chauffeur to take the car on, Jim slipped his arm through Marjorie's, and together they walked up to the house. Not until they had entered the drawing-room, where a cheerful fire was blazing, did Jim Crichton speak. He took Marjorie's hand in his and looked deep into her eyes.

"I can hardly believe that you are really here," he whispered. "It seems too good to be true. The months have been like years. But you have never been absent from me—even in my work you have always been beside me. By day and by night. If I had ever doubted that love was the greatest thing in the world I should know it now."

Marjorie smiled: her red lips parted and she tried to speak, but no words came. He had said just what she wanted him to say. And he had said it quietly, almost coldly.

For a few moments there was silence. Then he released her hands, and opening his arms he took her in them and, holding her tightly, covered her face with kisses. The pent-up passion burst. The months of separation, the obstacles that had been placed in their way, instead of killing their love, had increased it ten-fold.

"My dear, my dear one, what does anything else in the world matter so long as we have one another!" Jim whispered.

"Nothing," she sobbed, unable to keep back her tears—tears of joy. "Nothing—but I'm a woman. Therefore love is all in all to me. But you're a man, and——"

He silenced her with his lips: "And helpless, useless without his mate."

The darkness increased. The old oak-panelled room was only lit by the dancing flames from the log fire. There was silence in the house, and outside on the moorlands there was silence, too. Presently it was broken by the shouts of men and the baying of dogs. But the lovers did not hear.

They only heard the beating of each other's hearts and the voice of Love calling them to walk fearlessly along the path they had chosen. And the voice of Fate calling them to face the unknown future together.

Twice a servant knocked at the door before Jim heard, and starting up told him to enter.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, striking a match to light the candles, fearful lest his father had returned earlier than he expected.

The servant explained that an official from Princetown Prison wished to see him. "I understand, sir," the man said in an excited voice, "that a couple of convicts escaped this afternoon in the fog. They traced one in this direction. He was wounded by a shot the warder fired. They want permission to search the grounds and out-buildings."

Jim hesitated for a moment. "Of course they can search," he replied. "You know where the keys of the garage, the stables, and the out-buildings are, Perkins. You had better accompany them; and be sure to lock up carefully."

"Very good, sir!"

The servant was about to retire when the burly form of a uniformed warder blocked the doorway. He saluted.

"I understand Sir Reginald is away; can I speak to you a moment, sir?"

Jim glanced over his shoulder at Marjorie. She was hidden from sight, seated in a large armchair.

"Certainly," he replied. He crossed the room and stepped into the hall, closing the drawing-room door behind him.

As he did so a noise from the conservatory on the left of the fireplace startled Marjorie. The sound of a sudden crash. She listened a moment, then rose to her feet.

Very quietly stepping towards the door which led into the hot-house, she pulled back the curtain and peered through the glass panel.

CHAPTER XIX.

"YOU MUST GO BACK!"

Marjorie could see nothing. It was quite dark outside now. She listened, straining her ears, but not another sound could be heard. Whatever had fallen or been knocked down had made a great noise. Obviously, some one was in the conservatory.

She turned the handle of the door; it was unlocked, and it opened. Her first thought was that perhaps one of the dogs had been shut in by mistake. As she stepped down on to the tessellated pavement into the darkness she experienced a sudden little throb of fear. For the thought came that perhaps one of the escaped convicts had made his way into the conservatory and was hiding there. The fear went as quickly as it came. Her eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, saw dimly outlined the delicate fronds of the ferns and the graceful palms and overhead the green of the clambering vine. The air was heavy with the warm and subtle odour of forced growth.

She made her way to the door leading into the garden, and found it locked and bolted. So no one could have possibly entered that way. She gave a whistle and snapped her fingers, still thinking that one of the dogs might be there. There was no response.

She was turning away when her foot struck a portion of broken pot. Stooping down she saw that a large pile of them had been overturned, and the majority lay in fragments on the ground, behind them a tin bucket from which water was still trickling.

She gave a little laugh—it seemed so mysterious. And then her brow puckered in a frown.... Had some one been listening and spying on them? The idea was ridiculous, and yet—the bucket, obviously half full of water, and the pile of pots could not have fallen there on their own account. It was just possible that a large rat——

She stooped down to peer under the shelf. As she did so she was conscious of footsteps on the gravel outside, and at the same moment a brighter light shone through the door leading into the drawing-room. A servant had brought in the lamp. Then she heard Jim's voice, obviously speaking to one of the warders from the prison.

The ferns and the drooping tendrils of plants and a bank of moss blocked her view underneath the shelf; the light from the drawing-room fell at the wrong angle. Bending lower she brushed aside a clump of ferns.

And she saw, pressed tightly against the wall, the outline of a foot and leg. Some one was hiding there.

The next moment her eyes had seen the tell-tale broad-arrow on the boot and trousers.

One of the escaped convicts! She caught her breath, and drawing back stood upright, uncertain for the moment what to do. The door was bolted on the inside, and with Jim and the warders a few feet away in the drawing-room he was trapped. There was no escape. She hesitated a moment, not in the least alarmed, only surprised and a little overwhelmed by her discovery. She knew that the moorlands must be alive with men searching; already, probably, the outbuildings and the houses were being ransacked—and here the convict lay, at her feet.

The next thought was that he must have heard her enter and knew that she had discovered him. She wondered why he had not attacked her and tried to bolt.

"Marjorie—where are you?"

She started at the sound of her lover's voice. It brought her back to a sense of her duty. As she turned towards the drawing-room she heard—him saying good-night to the warder to whom he had been talking.

"One moment," she cried, "I want you, Jim."

Something stirred at her feet. A movement from the hunted creature lying hidden beneath the ferns and flowers.

Suddenly, in a flash, she felt as if her soul, her whole being, had changed places with his. She experienced the agony that he was feeling—alternating hope and fear. The desire to live and escape at all costs, and the desire to kill those who stood between him and liberty. She heard herself draw her breath with difficulty, with hard, sharp gasps. Her body broke out into a sweat. She trembled from head to foot.

Then she felt Jim's hand on her arm. "Hello, dear, what are you doing out here in the darkness?"

She turned her back on him, afraid lest the light coming through the open door shone on her face. Again she heard a stealthy movement of feet followed by a shuffling under the shelf. The convict knew the game was up and was coming out.

"Don't move," she cried, scarcely knowing what she said.

With an effort she steadied herself and gained self-control. Against the wall on her right a Maréchal Niel rose-tree had been trained. A yellow bud caught her eyes just out of reach. Jim Crichton entered the conservatory.

"I wanted to steal that rose," she whispered. "I'm not tall enough. Do pick it for me, Jim."

"Silly child," he laughed. "You gave me quite a fright. I thought something was wrong."

Standing on tip-toe, he picked the rosebud and gave it her. Bending her head she placed her lips to it. Jim kissed the top of her head, then, turning away, tried the outer door.

"That's all right. No one can get in here. Come along back to the drawing-room, Marjorie. Those fellows will have finished searching in a minute and we shall be left in peace again. It's rather serious, you know, a couple of convicts getting away. But, of course, they'll catch them all right—though I'm afraid they'll have to wait until the morning now."

Taking her hand he led her back to the drawing-room. He was closing the conservatory door when she asked him to leave it open.

"It seems rather hot in here."

"Well, it's hotter in there," he laughed.

He put his arms around her and gazed into her eyes. "I'm jealous of every minute that's stolen from us. I shall never let you go away again for such a long period. It's been bad enough for me, and I've had work that I love. It must have been worse for you, darling."

She nodded, and laid her face on his shoulder. "That's all gone, dear. This hour is ours—and there's the future.... Jim, I have a confession to make."

"Well, come and sit down in the arm-chair and make it," he laughed. "Let me hold you in my arms as if you were a child, for that's all you are sometimes."

"Not now. I'm a woman. No," as he made a movement, "listen to me, Jim. While I was away from you I had no doubts about the future. I was certain that I could make you happy, that love was the principal thing in life. I'm not so sure now."

She felt his grip tighten. "Why, just now you confessed——"

"I confessed what I felt," she interrupted. "I want you to confess. I want you to look far, far into the future ... and also to remember the past. Remember what I am—and what my brother is."

Against her will her eyes were drawn towards the conservatory where the convict was hiding. An outcast, an outlaw, wearing the shameful uniform of crime. Just such a man was her brother. Wearing just the same uniform, living the same life, thinking the same thoughts. Just as desperate. Her brother: herded with other criminals in one of the great prisons of England. She had been speaking her thoughts, saying just what she felt. She knew that she was speaking them to gain time. She ought not to have wasted one moment before telling Jim of the man hiding a few yards away from them. Warders were at that moment searching outbuildings and the gardens. She was committing an unlawful act in not giving him up. She was making her lover party to her guilt.

But she could not tell him. For one dreadful moment she had entered into that wretched man's feelings. It was as if she had taken his place in the darkness out there where he was hiding.

She wanted him to escape! She was incapable of reasoning that moment. Perhaps the taint of crime was in her blood. Perhaps her brother really had been guilty of robbing her lover's father.

"My dearest little one, you needn't trouble about my future. I shall really only begin to live when you're my wife. I can't lose my job—if I do I can find another. And your love will make me twice as keen on my work, for you will share in it. We have each got our job to do, and we shall do it better for being together. That's all about it."

She heard his voice, as from a distance off. As he finished speaking she heard footsteps in the hall—the opening of the front door.

Some one knocked at the drawing-room door. It opened, and the servant admitted the chief warder.

"We've searched carefully, sir," he said to Jim, who put Marjorie from him and stood in front of her. "And some of my men have been right through the gardens and shrubberies, but they ain't hiding anywhere here. No doubt you'll see that your men-servants keep a sharp look-out. One man's badly hit—but he was a sharpish one, he was. I'm afraid there ain't much chance of getting them to-night, but we shall have them as soon as day breaks." He saluted. "Good-night, sir. Good-night, ma'am."

The drawing-room door closed, and Marjorie listened to the footsteps crossing the hall. "We shall get them as soon as day breaks." Automatically she repeated the words the warder had spoken.

"Jim, come here quickly. I have something I must tell you before the warders go."

He turned towards her, frowning, a look of amazement on his face. Even then she hesitated. She heard the front door close. The warders had gone. Taking Jim by the arm she led him towards the conservatory.

"There's some one hiding in there," she whispered. "When you left the room to speak to the chief warder I heard a crash from the conservatory. I went in, and under the shelf I saw a man crouched up. His clothes bore the broad arrow. He's one of the convicts who escaped."

Jim looked at her with unbelieving eyes. Then putting her aside, he stepped quickly towards the conservatory. Suddenly he stopped and swung round.

"Marjorie! You're certain of this? Why didn't you speak—before the warders left?"

Something moved in the darkness of the hothouse. Slowly out of the masses of foliage a head and shoulders emerged. Jim sprang to the bell and rang it.

"What are you going to do?" Marjorie whispered.

"Send Perkins to call the warders back. Give the fellow up," he replied sharply. "You ought to have told me at once, Marjorie. You had better wait in the dining-room."

He stood in the doorway blocking the exit. Marjorie stood in front of him and laid her hands on his arms.

"Jim—you mustn't give him up. It's horrible."

He tried to push her away.

"Jim," her voice rose piercingly. "My brother is a convict.... You needn't hide him, but just let him go—give him a sporting chance. Let him go. No one will ever know. Give him a chance."

"Silence, dear. You don't know what you're saying."

The door opened and Perkins entered the room. For a moment there was silence. Not a sound from the conservatory now. Not a sound from the garden outside. The barking of the dogs and the voices of the men had died away.

"You rang, sir?"

"Bring the glasses, a syphon of soda water, and the whisky," Jim said in a strained voice.

Directly the servant had gone he pointed to the sofa on the other side of the fireplace away from the entrance to the conservatory.

"Marjorie, dear, go and sit down there. I understand, and I'm sorry; but I must do my duty."

She looked at him dry-eyed. All the tenderness had left her face. "It's five-score of men against one. Open the door and let him go. Yes, he's bound to be caught to-morrow, but every hour, every minute, every second of freedom must be as sweet to him as our love is to us, Jim. Give him a run—for his money."

Jim had turned his back on her. He disappeared into the conservatory and the door closed behind him.

Perkins brought the tumblers and the whisky into the room and placed them on a small table.

"Quite exciting, miss, this escape of two convicts. Hasn't been an escape from Princetown for a long time. What with that and this radium mine on Mr. Dale's estate——"

He suddenly stopped and coughed deprecatingly. He, too, in speaking of convicts had forgotten that he was speaking to a convict's sister.

Marjorie waited. For a long time she heard no sound. Then Jim's voice, strained and very stern. Not the voice of a lover now, but the voice of a soldier—even something more than that, the voice of a man under the strain of great emotion.

Presently she detected an answering voice. She rose to her feet, and standing against the conservatory door peered through the glass.

She could see the outlines of the two men distinctly. One her lover, the other the convict. Jim turned, and as he did so he saw her. She saw him push the convict back, then, mounting the steps, he opened the door.

"Go back!" he cried fiercely. "Go—away—into the dining-room."

"You must tell me what you're going to do."

She looked into his face, but his eyes fell. His mouth looked merely a thin line, his jaws protruded. She put her hand on his arm—it was like a steel band.

"Go away, do you hear! Go away, do you hear! Wait until I come to you." He commanded now.

He tried to push her across the room. She clung to him and stood her ground. She stared into his face, forced his eyes to meet hers.

"You are hiding something from me, Jim.... You are going to give him up——"

Suddenly he seized her wrists in a grip of iron. "You know who's hiding out there," he said between his teeth.

"A convict—that's all I know——"

A sound from the conservatory made Jim turn his head. Marjorie wrenched herself free. Out of the darkness beyond the conservatory door the figure of the convict emerged. Marjorie stopped as she saw him.

"Go back!" Jim cried.

The convict spoke. "It's too late! I'm a coward, I know. But liberty's dearer than life now." He held out his arms to Marjorie. "Hide me, for God's sake, hide me!"

She put out her hands as if to keep him off. Her lips framed his name. The name of her brother! It rattled in her throat. She turned to her lover.

"I didn't know, Jim, I didn't know!"

He nodded. "Speak quietly. Sit down there."

Crossing the room, he locked the drawing-room door. He motioned Rupert to the arm-chair and made him place it so that if he had to open the door no one would see him. Then he poured out a stiff whisky and soda and gave it him to drink. The tumbler rattled between his teeth as he emptied the contents. He laid it on the floor by his side, then he looked at Jim, avoiding his sister's eyes.

"I—I was hunted here. I didn't come purposely. When I broke away it was not to escape.... I had a message. But the taste of liberty has grown so sweet that—that nothing else matters!"

He stopped, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. "But before it comes to a question of—of fighting for my freedom—in case I go under, you had better hear what I've got to say. It's for Marjorie and my father I escaped. It was not for you or your father's ears, Mr. Crichton—I want to make sure that swine Despard doesn't cheat us of our rights."

He paused a moment as if expecting an interruption, but neither Jim nor Marjorie spoke. They were as motionless as figures of stone.

"Just before—before I was accused of robbing your father, Mr. Crichton, Despard and I found there was pitch-blende in the old tin mine by Blackthorn Farm. Despard made experiments with it and—he got a report from Vardoff—you may have heard of him—an expert. The report said there were good grounds for supposing that radium might be——"

Then Jim Crichton stopped him. "Save your breath. We know this. Why, already the plant is being erected, a company floated. Mr. Despard has apparently done quite the right thing. Anyway, the property belongs to your father again, and if there's any truth in the report he'll make a fortune. If that's all you came to say, all you wanted to know, you can go back to prison with an easy conscience." He spoke brutally. "You must go back, you know."

"I am innocent."

"That's not the question now. You must go back."

Slowly Rupert turned and looked at his sister. "Marjorie. Help me! Say a word for me. He loves you.... Ask him, and he'll help me to escape. For he can, now. The warders won't come back here. I'm safe for the moment. Marjorie—speak. You are my flesh and blood. Speak! It's my life I'm pleading for."

CHAPTER XX.

PLANS FOR ESCAPE.

Marjorie looked at her lover. He met her gaze fairly. But she saw fear in his eyes—a thing she had never seen there before.

She knew he had never known the meaning of fear until now. Then she looked at her brother. Crossing to his side she told him to stand up.

"Look at me, Rupert. Tell me whether you're innocent or guilty—one moment, before you speak. I know, but I want to hear the truth from your lips."

"It can make no difference." Jim Crichton spoke. "He has been found guilty. He has escaped from prison. He must go back to prison."

Brother and sister were standing close together, facing one another fearlessly now. To Jim listening and watching it seemed a long time before Rupert spoke.

"I am innocent," he said at last.

Marjorie put her arms around him, holding him closely and tightly. "I knew it."

Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. "Who was the guilty person? Do you know that?"

"Yes. I know that."

"Who was it?" Her voice rose triumphantly.

Again there was a long silence. Jim turned his back. He was fighting against the fear which possessed him. He was afraid of himself. Emotions of which he had never before been conscious filled his heart—war against ideals, principles and faiths to which he had been brought up.

"I shall never say who was guilty."

Marjorie gave vent to a little cry: a cry of joy. She took her brother's hands, both of them, and covered them with kisses. Roughly he snatched them away and stood back.

"I've given you my message—though it has come too late. I don't know what Despard has done for you, but don't trust him, Marjorie. Warn father.... When I said just now that I had had no intention of escaping it was true. But now I have escaped I don't mean to go back. If you won't help me, if the man who loves you does his duty and gives me up, then I shall fight for it."

He backed across the room as he spoke, and gazed around as if seeking for some weapon.

Marjorie stepped towards her lover and held out her arms. "Jim!"

He shook his head, and crossing the room unlocked the door.

"Jim! What are you going to do?"

"I must do my duty."

She followed him. "Your duty to the State? But what of me. Yes, I am pleading for myself now. For the love we bear one another."

The door-handle rattled in his hand. He stood with his back towards her. "Marjorie, don't tempt me."

"I'm not tempting you," she replied quietly. "I'm asking you calmly and coldly to save my brother. I know what I'm asking. I know that if you hide him and if he's discovered you will be ruined. I realise the awful responsibility I'm putting on you. I'm doing a terrible thing, but I'm doing it with my eyes open, conscious of the love I bear you.... Still, I ask it. Save him."

Beads of perspiration stood on Rupert's forehead. He was trembling from head to foot as if with an ague. The muscles of his face worked convulsively.

"Just let me go then. I'll take my chance outside. They'll never know I was here, I'll swear to that. A few hours' more freedom—that's all I want. I might get back home and see my father for a moment.... They won't take me alive. I can't go back to that granite hell at Princetown. Death's easier. I'm not afraid—for I can die fighting ... but to be taken back like a dog on a chain, to be put into a hole where there is neither night nor day, only silence and four narrow walls, and a cup of water and a piece of bread——"

Jim held up his hand. "Silence, Dale. Don't say any more. This rests between Marjorie and me. There is one thing, however, you should know—I am going to marry your sister."

Rupert made a movement forward, then stopped. "I told you just now that I was a coward," he cried fiercely, his voice rising. "I am no longer a man. Prison has done its work quickly.... All I want now is freedom. I don't care how I get it. I was neither a thief nor a liar nor a coward when I was convicted nine months ago, but I am now, and I'll lie, cheat, kill—for freedom. I'm going to get out of this house alive even if they shoot me like a dog outside your garden gate. So now you know."

"Be silent," Jim said again. He turned round and looked at Marjorie. "You have heard. What do you say?"

"Save him. Perhaps I am asking you the greatest thing in the world. If my love is worth the sacrifice—make it."

He took her hands in his then. They were as cold as ice. She scarcely looked beautiful. The agony she was undergoing had distorted her features.

"Wait here. I shall not be long."

He left the room, closing the door behind him. Marjorie stood with her back to it, supporting herself against it. Rupert stared round the room, crossed to the conservatory door and closed it. He pulled the curtain at the window closer. He picked up the decanter of whisky as if to help himself again, but changed his mind and put it down. Twice he tried to speak, but no words issued from his lips.

"Sit down, dear," Marjorie said, striving to regain her normal voice. "You must be very tired."

He nodded his head but remained standing. Jim was absent a long time. Now and then sounds they would not have heard under ordinary circumstances startled the brother and sister waiting in the drawing-room—waiting far apart. Once they had been all in all to one another; now a third person stood between them, and in his hands lay Rupert's life.

At last Rupert spoke. "I can't stand this much longer. Marjorie, open the door and let me go. I'm asking too much. Let me go and take my chance."

She shook her head. "Wait."

At last Jim returned. He left the door open and beckoned to Rupert. "Follow me."

The convict glanced at him. There was no need to question. He crossed the room on tip-toe, holding his breath. His expression was that of a hunted animal, his movements the same.

The door closed and Marjorie was alone. An hour passed, but now she was unconscious of time. She sat on the Chesterfield staring into space. She was only conscious of Jim's presence when she felt his arms around her.

"Father may return any moment," he said. She heard a sob of fear in his voice, it had changed. She did not recognise it as the voice of her lover. "I'm afraid you must go. Before you go I must tell you what I've done and what I hope to do. Listen, dear—and remember."

"I am listening, Jim."

"You know my workroom at the back of the house, just underneath my bedroom? It was built out for me just before I joined the R.F.C. Underneath it is a cellar where I keep a few things stored—plant, bits of machinery, petrol, and so forth. Some of the plant I want for my experiments is there and a small furnace. The entrance to my workroom is always locked and the way to the cellar bolted and padlocked, too. I've hidden him there, in the cellar. Binks, my bull terrier, always sleeps in the workroom. He knows Rupert, remembered him and made friends at once. He would give warning if anyone approached.... I've given Rupert a change of clothes and food—enough of the latter to last him twenty-four hours in case of need. I spend half the day in my workroom always, so—he won't feel lonely. A fortnight or three weeks at least must pass before we can dream of escape. He can change his appearance in that time, too."

He waited a moment. Marjorie said nothing, but he felt her body tremble. He held her tighter.

"I've thought of a way. It seems the only way, but, at the same time, it means the greatest risk. I'll tell you now in case there's not another opportunity. We may want your help. In about three weeks' time I'm doing a special flight—a long distance flight from Netheravon to Plymouth, carrying a passenger. It isn't long enough to attract public attention. As an experiment I am using a new engine and trying a little invention of my own which the Government may take up. A certain amount of secrecy will, therefore, be observed. I shall be free to make whatever arrangements I like, take whatever course I choose, and so forth. My idea, hazy at present, is that Rupert shall be my passenger. If I can pick him up and land him at Plymouth he'll stand a chance, a fairly good one, perhaps. Luckily, he knows every inch of Dartmoor, so do I. A monoplane doesn't attract as much attention as it used to, and if the public doesn't know anything about the flight or the direction I'm taking, I may manage to pass over the wildest part of Dartmoor, Cranmere Pool, for example, come down there unnoticed, and pick up Rupert.... Don't say anything, dear, and now go. If you're asked, don't hesitate to say where you've spent this evening. Hide nothing—except the fact that you've seen your brother. Any distress you may show would be perfectly natural. Blackthorn Farm is sure to be watched day and night. You and your father will be watched and followed, probably, but that needn't prevent your coming up here if you want to see me. I won't announce our engagement until Rupert is safe, in case it arouses suspicion." He led her to the door. "Good-night, dear. God bless you."

"God bless you," she stammered. "It is mean to ask now, but tell me one thing more before I go. You don't hate me? I've asked the impossible, and you have done it—you won't hate me when you realise what you've done?"

He forced her eyes to meet his and he smiled bravely. "I realised what I was doing before I did it, dear. It's a big thing. It's like war. That's all now. I love you better than——"

The sentence was unfinished. He kissed her lips, and opening the door led her through the hall out into the garden. There he wished her good-night again, loudly, in a cheery tone of voice, and watched her until she was out of sight.

The fog had quite disappeared. The million eyes of the night shone from a cloudless sky. An owl hooted from a wood on the right. Down in the valley the East Dart sang its way to the sea.

Jim Crichton looked up at the sky. And presently he smiled. It was good to be a soldier and to fight. It was better to be a man, and to love.

CHAPTER XXI.

READY FOR FLIGHT.

Marjorie had reason to be grateful now for the sudden fame into which Blackthorn Farm had sprung owing to the discovery of pitch-blende in the tin mine, with the supposition contained in the expert's report that radium would undoubtedly be found. For the county was far too excited—even though still sceptical—over this discovery to have more than a fleeting interest in the escape of two convicts.

No. 303, the man who had been hit and cleverly deceived the warders into believing they had killed him, was, of course, eventually caught, though not until he had enjoyed thirty hours of freedom.

Nearly a fortnight passed and No. 381 was reported to be still at large. The police and warders scoured the county. Plain-clothes detectives were at every seaport town and village on the coast. Nearly every tramp steamer leaving Plymouth was searched. Hotels and common lodging houses were kept under constant surveillance. Occasionally an arrest was reported—but 381 was not found.

The police confessed themselves baffled at last. The authorities at Princetown were at their wits end. That a convict should escape at all was bad enough, but that fourteen days should pass without his being captured was almost without precedent.

At first the moorland dwellers and village folk all strenuously aided in the search, but soon they grew tired, and presently they began to laugh at the futile efforts of the warders and police to capture 381. Public opinion on Dartmoor veered round, and soon a wish was openly expressed that the convict would really make good his escape and never be caught.

"He must be a durned smart chap, and deserves to get off. Dang me! if I came across him now I'm not sure I'd give him up."

The police decided that he had safely got out of the county, probably out of England. Up at Princetown, however, the officials insisted that the man was still hiding somewhere on Dartmoor. And they had good reason for thinking this. The news soon leaked out that 381 was none other than Rupert Dale, of Blackthorn Farm. A moorman, one who knew every inch of the country, born and bred on Dartmoor. Such a one, provided he could get food and drink, might easily play hide and seek with his would-be captors for many weeks.

When the best part of three weeks had passed, when every scrap of country had been searched and no stone left unturned—indeed, there was not a cairn nor a pile of boulders that had escaped examination—then the officials began to look rather ridiculous, and were inclined to confess that Rupert Dale, though he had not left the country, had at least got out of Devonshire.

The moorlands resumed their normal aspect and were no longer dotted about with detectives, constables and armed warders. But the police increased their vigilance in all the neighbouring towns.

Old John Dale had done his best to help in the search and aid the warders. It was only natural that at first he should be suspected of knowing where his son was hiding, in spite of the character he bore for straightforwardness and honesty. A very careful account was kept of the workmen employed in erecting the plant of what was already known as the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm.

Marjorie's sufferings those three weeks were terrible, but she hid her feelings and showed no more anxiety as to her brother's whereabouts and welfare than was to be naturally expected in such a case.

Curiously enough, with each passing day confidence in his ultimate escape grew until she felt no fear at all that he would be discovered and taken back to Princetown. While he was hidden in Jim's workroom at Post Bridge Hall he was safe. Even the terrible risk her lover had taken for her sake ceased to worry her.

She had to play a part, and she sometimes marvelled herself at the cool, deliberate way in which she played it.

The one, the only person, she feared, was Robert Despard. Before Rupert's escape she had avoided him on every possible occasion. Now, she no longer dared do so. For she felt he suspected her—suspected she had seen Rupert and knew where he was hiding. His work kept him so busy that he had not much time to persecute her. Still, she knew he was at watch—and when he was not watching her, she in turn, was watching him, terrified that whenever he left the farm he would bend his footsteps towards the Hall.

She had only seen Jim once since the night of Rupert's escape, when he had called at the farm with some message from Sir Reginald for her father. They had not been alone for a minute, but a glance at his face told her all was well.

There were moments, of course, when she repented of what she had done. She told herself she was a coward. For repentance meant that she was putting her own happiness and future before that of her brother. Being a woman, she argued that since her brother was innocent it was her duty to help him to escape. It was criminal for an innocent man to suffer for the guilt of another, even though, by speaking, he could have cleared himself. In her eyes, his silence gave him an added nobility. Her soul revolted when she thought of the long years he might still have to endure shut up in the dreadful granite prison on the moors. For the first time in her life she realised what it meant to be a convict, a prisoner, a criminal.

She knew now that these men she had sometimes seen working in the fields and quarries were treated worse than beasts of burden; in harness day and night, knowing not one minute's liberty or freedom; doomed to years of silence, forced to implicit obedience of every order given them. Just enough food and just enough sleep dealt out to keep them alive.

No risk could be too great to save her brother. She knew a chance would never occur again. And if he were caught and sent back until he had served his time, then, when he came out, he would no longer be a man but really and truly a criminal—something distorted, hideous, unnatural. A human being at war with humanity.

It was just at the end of three weeks that Jim Crichton presented himself at the farm to say good-bye before going back to Netheravon to join his corps. Rupert's escape had never been spoken of in the farmhouse. Dale had forbidden his name to be mentioned, and Marjorie sometimes wondered if her father had lost all feeling for his only son. She had a dreadful thought that if he knew of his hiding-place he would instantly inform the police and give him up.

"I suppose when we meet again you will be millionaires," Crichton said cheerily. "I see a prospectus is being issued next week of The Blackthorn Development Company. I shall apply for a few shares—just for luck."

"I'm afraid you won't get them," Despard answered. "The Company will be subscribed two or three times over. You go back to Netheravon to-morrow?"

Jim nodded.

"Alone?"

There was a moment's silence. Marjorie caught her breath. There seemed to be a challenge in Despard's voice.

"Yes, alone," Jim replied with a laugh. "Unfortunately, I can't take Marjorie with me—yet. Perhaps in a few months' time, though, we shall fly off together, man and wife."

Despard shrugged his shoulders as he left the room. "Perhaps," he murmured under his breath.

Crichton shook hands with Dale, and the old man held his hand a few moments longer than was necessary.

"It's a brave thing you're doing in keeping the promise you gave Marjorie; but if you insist on making her your wife, you'll break your father's heart, Mr. Crichton."

"I hope not. I hope he'll come to see things my way. But if I had to make a choice, Mr. Dale, I'd rather break his than hers."

Dale sighed and nodded his head. "I suppose youth must be served," he whispered. "Perhaps it's just that the old should suffer. My boy has broken my heart—that's why I feel for your father."

"You're convinced of your son's guilt, then?" Jim said.

"Of course I am. Why, he confessed it!"

Jim turned away. "Perhaps one day his innocence may be proved, Mr. Dale. Oh, I don't want to raise false hopes in your breast. But I'm beginning to believe with Marjorie that he was innocent of the crime of which he was convicted. While there's life there's hope, remember."

He took Marjorie's hand: "Walk down as far as Post Bridge with me, will you? We will say good-bye at the place where we first confessed our love."

Once they were alone it was not of love they spoke. They walked side by side, and now and then Marjorie laughed. If anyone had overheard, if anyone had been watching them, they would never have guessed of what these two lovers were talking.

Jim had perfected his plans for Rupert's escape. He outlined them in detail to Marjorie. Her help would be wanted; and her task, he said, would perhaps be the most difficult task.

On Monday evening she would receive a telegram from him telling her of the flight he was going to make from Netheravon to Plymouth. On receipt of the wire she was to go up to Post Bridge Hall, ostensibly at a request the telegram would contain, to show the message to Jim's father. But she would find Sir Reginald out. Jim knew he would be at Moretonhampstead on business. She was to wait for him, and Jim gave her the keys of his workroom and cellar. Rupert already had duplicates. The telegram would contain certain code words, of which Jim gave her the translation. She was to find some way of giving her brother the message they contained—the exact hour he was to leave his hiding-place and make his way across Dartmoor to a certain spot already decided on.

"If he fails it will be bad luck," Jim said. "But as far as is humanly possible he can't fail. No one would recognise in the smart, soldierly-looking young fellow the late Convict 381. If he gets safely away I shall send you a wire from Plymouth—just two words: 'Flight successful,' that's all. There's only one man I fear: the man who would like to be my rival—Despard. Once or twice in the evening lately I've seen him hanging around The Hall. It's impossible he could suspect the plans we've formed. I don't believe for an instant he knows where Rupert's hiding. If he did, he'd speak, and give him up, or only keep silence on condition that you——"

Marjorie stopped him. "You needn't fear, Jim. He suspects something, I know. On Monday night, after I've been to Post Bridge Hall, I'll make it my business to keep Mr. Despard at the farm until I know that Rupert's safely away. I can keep him—I'm a woman."

They reached the bridge, and stood for a few minutes gazing down into the foaming waters. Presently Jim held out his hand:

"Au revoir," he said quietly. And he lowered his voice for a moment. "Next time we meet I hope I shall have a marriage licence in my pocket."

"Au revoir, my lover," she whispered. "Remember, whatever happens, I'm yours and only yours: ready to follow you to the end of the world."

He took off his hat, kissed her hand, then nodding cheerily, he strode away. She watched him out of sight. He was risking his life, his honour, his reputation, for her sake. If he failed, she knew she would never see him again.

CHAPTER XXII.

JIM STARTS OFF.

The great plain stretched away in the sunlight, broken only by the silver line of the little Avon river and the Downs—like giant molehills—to the north.

It was early morning, but all was activity and bustle at Netheravon.

The great rows of "hangars" gleaming in the bright sunshine were already open, and groups of men—mechanics and cleaners—were busy on the aeroplanes they contained.

A group of officers of the Royal Flying Corps was gathered around a monoplane that had been run outside, and was being tuned up by a number of mechanics.

The two or three civilians with note-books in their hands were evidently pressmen. Something unusual was afoot, for half a dozen horsemen had just cantered into the aerodrome and, dismounting, approached the little crowd round the monoplane.

Suddenly it opened out and the group of officers saluted the smart, iron-featured, white-haired veteran who approached with a slight limp, his beribboned coat eloquent of hard service to the wealthy citizens of a thankless nation who greedily devour the spoils that they are too lazy in lending a hand in obtaining.

"Good-morning, gentlemen. Is Lieutenant Crichton here?"

Jim stepped forward and saluted. He was in service dress, with a safety helmet in place of the usual forage cap.

"Well, I hope the weather is satisfactory, Crichton?" the Chief said.

"Yes, sir, thank you; it is a perfect day for a flight."

The General then asked several technical questions about the monoplane. "You are taking a passenger with you, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

The General turned away, and Crichton saluted. Quite a number of people were arriving from every direction, and it had evidently become generally known that a special flight was about to be attempted.

Meanwhile the monoplane was ready. Jim climbed into his seat and started the engine. In a few moments he gave the signal to let go, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it gracefully rose in the air and was soon far over the plain. Suddenly it dipped and began to descend.

"By Jove, he's coming down. Something wrong—look! He's hit the ground—see the dust?" And similar exclamations rose from the crowd.

"Take my car, Johnson, and see what's wrong, will you?" said the Flight Commander—and in a moment the car was speeding across the plain.

"Look! Look!" shouted some one. "See the dust he's making!" In another moment the monoplane was seen in the air.

"By Jove, he's up again. Splendid! That's the first time this machine has left the ground single-handed, I'll bet. He's coming back."

In a minute or two the aeroplane began to descend. It brought up nearly on the spot it had started from.

Jim clambered down, and to the volley of questions from his brother officers merely explained that he had dropped his note-book, and had descended to pick it up.

"Look here, Major," Jim said to the Commandant. "I want to take my servant, Jackson, instead of young Hayward, but I don't like to tell him myself. Will you break it to him gently?"

"Good lord, Crichton, why on earth did you not say so before? Why do you prefer Jackson?"

"I shall have a much better chance with Jackson if I have to descend with engine trouble, because he's a trained mechanic, as you know, while young Hayward would be practically useless. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of Dartmoor, you know!"

"All right, I'll tell him; but it's rather rough on him, all the same."

The Commandant strolled over to where Lieutenant Hayward was talking to a few friends. As soon as he had gone, Crichton beckoned to his servant.

"Jackson, have you put the things I told you in my kit-bag?"

"Yes, sir, and two of everything, sir. Shall I strap the bag on?"

"Yes, and you are to come with me; so get your helmet, quick."

Soon all was bustle and commotion. The crowd of officers and soldiers and few civilians present made a wide semi-circle in the rear of the monoplane.

"Good luck, old chap!" "Don't lose your way!" "Got your maps?" "Wire us time of arrival!"—and a host of other remarks, mingled with chaff, were drowned in the roar of the propeller as Jim started the engine. He raised his hand and the great, bird-like aeroplane rushed forward and almost at once began to rise.

Soon it grew smaller and smaller as the distance increased, and began to curve to West as Jim set his course for Exeter.

The roar made by the engine of an aeroplane renders it impossible to hear one's own voice, much less to speak to another; but all military "two-seaters" are equipped with 'phones to enable the pilot and observer to converse with ease.

Jim now pulled down the receiver and adjusted it over his helmet. "Look here, Jackson! Do you know why I've taken you instead of Mr. Hayward?"

"No, sir."

"I'm going to trust you with a secret which, if you blab, will get me into a big row."

"Very good, sir. I shan't talk, you know that, sir."

"Well, I have promised a great friend at home to give him a flight, and I'm going to take him up to-day in your place—only as it is strictly against the Royal Flying Corps regulations to take anyone on a Corps machine, you must play up and not give the show away."

"Trust me for that, sir."

"My friend knows that he is to take your place—that is why I've put in a second suit of clothes—and he has asked me to give you a fiver."

"Very much obliged, I am sure, sir."

"All right. That is why I told you to put a suit of your own uniform in my bag. My friend will put on your uniform and will take your place. You will have to be careful not to be seen in Plymouth till he has changed at the hotel. I shall drop you at Exeter and you must go on to Plymouth by train; take two rooms for me at the 'Duke of Cornwall,' which is right against the station, and then hang about the place till I arrive. If anyone questions you—which is unlikely—you must only say that you are my mechanic from Salisbury. But don't you go near Crownhill Barracks till after we have arrived; then you may go to the canteen and 'gas' as much about the flight as you like."

"Very good, sir; I quite understand. I'll slip off quietly at Exeter so as not to be noticed."

For the next hour the steady hum of the great propeller was the only sound heard by the airmen, but just as Crewkerne had been passed a new note sounded—a steady umph! umph! umph! like the distant throbbing of a drum.

"Jackson, do you hear that?"

"Yes, sir—cylinder misfiring?"

"We shall have to come down. What's that ahead?"

"Looks like another railway line, sir; and there is a town there, too—I can make out houses with the glasses."

"That must be Chard. I shall come down when I see a good field."

The monoplane began to drop. Fields and hedges were plainly visible.

"Just put your glasses on to that big, green patch away to the right."

"Racecourse, sir. First-class landing by the looks of it."

The aeroplane banked steeply as Jim swung round to the right and commenced to descend. He stopped the engine and the machine dived down steeply, only to be checked as it neared the ground by a sudden rush of the propeller again, which stopped when it had given the necessary momentum. Now the wheels touched the turf as lightly as a bird, and after running along the ground for a short distance, it stopped nearly opposite the grand stand. Already people were running towards the racecourse from every direction, and Jim realised that the chance of his servant getting away unreported would be small.

"Look here, Jackson, you must go by the South Western to Exeter, then change to the Great Western and book to Millbay station, Plymouth. When I order you to meet me at Exeter, remember that is only a 'blind' for any reporters who may see you go, so you must stick to the story that you are meeting me there with more petrol. Understand?"

"All right, sir."

People began to arrive and questions were showered on Jim, who replied good-humouredly, and warned each newcomer not to come too near as he was about to start the engine again—a warning which was immediately emphasised by the throb of the engine itself, as Jackson tested the ignition.

"All right, sir."

Jim lit a cigarette, and taking a telegraph form from his pocket, wrote out a message to his Commanding Officer and handed it to Jackson.

"Send this off at once and go on to Exeter by train. Have the petrol ready there for me, and I'll pick you up at the place of which I told you."

Jim said this in a voice which could be heard by every one present. Then he climbed into his seat again.

"Stand back, please!" The crowd scattered, leaving a free run up the course. A minute later the monoplane was speeding away over the tree-tops and was soon lost to sight in the West.

CHAPTER XXIII.

SUCCESS.

Cranmere Pool! The most desolate spot on Dartmoor. Here rise seven rivers—born in the quaking morass, itself the result of the drainage of the giant tors which shut it in on every hand. A lonely spot encircled by the everlasting hills, without a road or cart-track—inaccessible, isolated. In summer visited by tourists who boast of having made the pilgrimage on the hardy little moorland ponies; in winter as solitary and forsaken as the Great Sahara itself.

Half a mile from the pool is a low, grassy plateau from which the hills slope upwards, and half-way up is the remains of a ruined house—the walls of which are only a few feet high, and are level with the ground in many places.

A strange place for a house until one notices the hummocks and depressions in the rock-strewn heather, and then one realises that once in far-off times this was a primitive tin mine.

The silence is intense—the hillside, save for the heather, bare and lifeless. Suddenly a clump of heather stirs, and a man's head appears thrust out of the hillside itself—followed by his body—as it emerges from a hole hidden by the heather. He raises a pair of Zeiss glasses and carefully sweeps the country—first the foot hills, then the more distant tors. Then having satisfied himself that he is the sole human being on that wild moorland, he throws himself into the heather—and fills and lights a pipe.

Rupert's waiting place had been well chosen. For anyone but a born moorman it would have been impossible. Dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair of decent length, and a decent moustache, it would have been difficult to recognise in him Convict 381! He lay on his back and nervously blew smoke rings into the blue vault above him. Presently he ceased smoking and sat up. A faint humming greeted his ears!

He rose to his feet and faced the north; his glasses swept round the skyline east and west—then he took them down and gazed slowly round the visible horizon. Nothing in sight, and yet the hum increased.

Now it stopped suddenly. He looked up, and there, right above him, was a monoplane, far up in the blue heavens, circling round and descending in great spiral swoops till he could see the figure of the pilot.

With a strangled cry of joy he ran down the steep hillside to the grassy plain, and presently the monoplane swooped down and bounded along the rough turf.

Rupert raced after it, and as gradually, almost imperceptibly, it slackened speed, he seized hold of it and used his weight to help bring it to a standstill, Crichton eventually jumping from his seat and doing the same.

Then Jim took off his safety helmet and the two men faced one another. Rupert held out his hand. He tried to speak, but he could not trust himself. Jim Crichton understood; he, too, had a queer sensation of choking in his throat.

He turned away and commenced to examine the machine, to see that it had not been damaged in alighting—and to give Rupert a chance of recovering himself. The latter was trembling from head to foot. He had been brave enough when he had been hunted by armed men through the fog, and his nerve had not deserted him when he came out from his place of concealment at Post Bridge Hall and begged to be given a chance to fight for his life. And all the time he had been hidden in the semi-darkness of the cellar adjoining Jim Crichton's workroom at the Hall he had felt confident that he would eventually obtain his freedom. But now that the hour had come, now that he stood on the vast moorland beneath the glorious blue sky, no longer wearing the badge of shame, to all intents and purposes free, his nerve failed him and his courage suddenly oozed through his feet.

He started at every sound—the call of a curlew, a distant sheep bell, the rattle of a stone beneath his boot. Jim unstrapped a parcel from the front seat of the monoplane and threw it on to the turf.

"Now then, Dale, you've got to be quick," he said brusquely, as if giving orders to one of his own men. "Undo that suit case. You'll find a uniform; take off the suit you're wearing and get into it. You mustn't waste a moment. I may have been seen descending, but I don't think it's likely from the height I was up."

Again Rupert tried to speak, but the words rattled incoherently in his throat. He commenced to change his clothes in a way that would have won the approval of a quick-change music-hall artist. When he had finished he packed up the blue suit of clothes and Jim strapped the case on to the monoplane again. Then he looked at Rupert critically.

"Yes, you'll do. You had better brush your moustache up a bit—so." He gave a little laugh. "Gad, you would make a very good soldier. Let's see you salute."

Rupert cast an anxious eye round the horizon. "You said there wasn't a moment to lose—some one may have seen you descend—this means life or death to me! ... and for you, the risk——"

Jim stepped forward and laid his hand on Rupert's shoulder. "Come, pull yourself together, man. You'll want all your courage in an hour's time when we land at Plymouth. You haven't forgotten what I've told you? ... I started from Netheravon with my soldier servant, Jackson. Dropped him at Chard, and he went on by rail to Exeter, where I picked him up again—you're Jackson!"

"Yes, I remember all that," Rupert replied hastily.

"Now, when we arrive at Plymouth be careful not to speak a word. Yes or no will be quite enough. Go straight to the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, and refuse all invitations to the canteen or mess. You know what to do at the hotel? Now, try that salute again, the first was rotten. It's more important than you think. We mustn't take the slightest risk of failure now."

Eventually Crichton was satisfied. They had some little difficulty in starting the engine. Altogether, scarcely half an hour passed since the monoplane alighted before it was once more in the air making great spirals as it climbed steeply into the clouds. Rupert scanned the moorlands surrounding the pool with his glasses. To his relief no human being was in sight. They had not been observed.

Jim contrived to keep Cranmere Pool as the centre and avoided even sighting Okehampton Camp, nor was Princetown visible till they sailed swiftly over it—a mere speck thousands of feet below.

It seemed only a few moments before the gleam of water and a pall of smoke showed Rupert that Plymouth was just ahead.

* * * * *

The monoplane began to descend in great spirals, till woods and houses were clearly visible. Jim did not approach the town, but circled round a large down. Now crowds of people could be seen running towards an open green space with a great white cross on it, directly below them.

Rupert noticed that many were soldiers. More soldiers poured out of the line of huts to the south. The engine stopped. Now the cross was right ahead, and the ground appeared to Rupert to be rushing towards them. He clutched the supports on each side and realised they were falling at a frightful rate. Suddenly the engines started again—but only for a moment. Before he knew how it happened the monoplane was rushing along the ground with great leaps, till it stopped just beyond the canvas cross. In a moment a cordon of soldiers formed round the monoplane. Jim jumped from his seat and was shaking hands with a group of eager officers.

Rupert also climbed down and was instantly surrounded by soldiers, who plied him with questions. Before he could reply Jim pushed through them.

"Now, Jackson, don't stand gossiping there! Take my suit-case down to the 'Duke of Cornwall' at once. Ask for the rooms I've engaged. I shall want a bath and change immediately."

"Yes, sir." And Rupert gave his best military salute.

"Here, take that safety helmet off and put on your cap," Jim commanded, "or you'll be mobbed outside.... Now, men, don't interfere with him, he will be back in an hour. Just help to wheel the 'plane opposite the polo pavilion."

Rupert, bag in hand, hurried to the gate, glad to escape further questions from his supposed comrades.

At the gate he met a cavalcade, and had to stand aside to let it pass. Just as he was hurrying down the road again, he heard a horse behind him, and a voice hailed him.

"Hi! You there! Why don't you salute the General, eh? Here, sergeant, take this man's name and regiment." And the young officer turned his horse and galloped after the General again.

Rupert found himself confronted by a short, stout, red-faced man in a red tunic with three gold stripes on his arm.

"Name and regiment?" he snapped.

Rupert saw the necessity for a prompt answer at once and replied "Private Jackson, Royal Flying Corps."

"What's your number?"

"Number?" repeated Rupert in surprise.

"Come on, now—don't you let me 'ave none of your ... nonsense. Out with it!"

Rupert went hot and cold all over. His number! So he was discovered, after all. He gave it in a low voice. "No. 381. I'll go quietly with you, but I should like to see Lieutenant Crichton first."

"I ain't going to put you in the guard-room," the sergeant guffawed, "not unless you gives me any more of your blooming cheek. But you're for the orderly-room to-morrow morning, 9.45 sharp, for not saluting the General Officer Commanding the Western District—and don't you forget it, or you'll find yourself in 'clink.' Now, fly off, and don't give us so much of your ... Flying Corps manners."

Rupert reached the "Duke of Cornwall" safely without further adventure. But on his way there, when he found himself in the busy streets, a sudden panic seized him. He felt his body alternately grow hot and cold. He was overcome by an overwhelming desire to run—to run away from the people who thronged the pavements, to fight a passage through the traffic and escape—somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide himself and be alone.

Alone in the darkness again!

Ever since his escape from prison he had lived the life of an underground animal. Always in the darkness. And at night, when he had dared sometimes steal a breath of fresh air; the darkness still surrounded him and the silence and the mystery of the night.

For the best part of a year he had been shut off from human intercourse and converse with his fellow men.

Now he suddenly found himself rubbing shoulders with them. He was jostled to and fro; laughter echoed in his ears. The noise of the traffic threatened to deafen him.

He had to keep a tight grip on himself, or he knew he would have bolted—like a thief.

Then, gradually, as his self-confidence returned and he found he was not molested, fear left him and was replaced by a tremendous excitement. He began to feel like a child who has run away from home, or a schoolboy who has escaped the vigilance of his masters. The noise of the streets began to have a meaning for him: colour and movement. The motors and tram-cars and the splendid shops.

And, overhead, the great blue sky. He was free, really a free man again.

At liberty! He mouthed the word lovingly. And he stood still on the pavement and gaped at the men and women who passed to and fro. How easily they took their liberty; how unconscious they seemed of it. They had never known what it was to be imprisoned. They had never known what it was to live behind walls, to be shut up in a narrow cell in the everlasting twilight, without even a window through which one might gaze and be reminded that God's in His heaven, all's well with the world.

Again he laughed. At that moment a policeman passed him and turning his head looked at him. Rupert was standing just outside a shop. Hardly knowing what he was doing he bolted into it. The next moment he cursed himself for a fool and a coward. A huge glass mirror showed him his reflection. He stared at it fascinated. He looked no more like a convict than he looked like the old Rupert Dale he had once known.

An assistant's voice behind the counter asking him what he wanted brought him back to the needs of the moment. By good fortune the shop was a tobacconist's—and Rupert knew he did want something very badly. A smoke. He bought a four-penny cigar, and the chink of money gave him another strange thrill. He spent an unconscionable time in lighting it, but when he ventured into the street again he found to his relief the policeman had gone.

And so eventually he reached the hotel safely and sat down at the open window of the private sitting-room reserved for Lieutenant James Crichton.

And there an hour or two later Jim found him.

The two men shook hands silently. It was difficult to find words. They had both gone through big ordeals. They had both been fighting against pretty stiff odds. Victory seemed assured.

But they were not out of danger yet.

Jim had a hot bath and changed, then he told Rupert to do the same.

"You will have to get into mufti," he explained to him. "I've had a kit-bag sent here, and it contains everything you'll want for your journey. You remember all I've told you? Well, I've had to change our plans slightly. You sail to-night on a small boat, about a thousand tons, that's going East. I've booked you as a coffee planter—thanks to working in the fields at Princetown you've got a good tan on your face. Your name is John Cotton—which fits in with the initials on my bag. I thought it out as I was filling my 'baccy pouch——" He laughed. "For heaven's sake, remember—John Cotton! You'll find a book amongst your kit dealing with coffee planting. You'd better study it in case you're tackled on the subject. The captain of the ship's a pal of mine. He's got a box for the theatre to-night, and is bringing a friend. We're going to join him there, and after the show, in the middle of supper, we're all to walk down to the Barbican Steps, where the captain's dinghy will be waiting.... Captain Sparkes is a decent chap, and a sportsman. He knows you're under a cloud, that's all he knows. I would have told him the truth, but I couldn't, for his sake; for if he knew and anything went wrong he would get into no end of a mess. He won't question you. And once you're outside Plymouth Sound you'll know you're safe."

Rupert nodded his head. He could not thank Crichton. Mere words would not convey what he felt.

Perhaps Jim knew what was passing in his mind, for he laid his hand on his shoulder a moment, giving it a friendly grip.

"That's all right," he said steadily. "Now, from this moment I want you to blot out the past. You told your sister you were innocent. I didn't believe it at first. I believe it now."

Rupert raised his head and looked straight into Jim's face. "Thank God for that."

"Forget everything," Jim continued. "Only remember John Cotton, the coffee planter, en route for Singapore."

He took out a note-book from his pocket and handed Rupert a wad of notes. "There's a hundred pounds there, half in English, half in dollar notes. When the radium mine booms you'll have more money than you know what to do with. Now then, just before you close the door on the past and lock it, is there anything I can do for you in England?"

Rupert walked round to the window and gazed out. Down below the bustle and business of life; the buying and selling, the loving and hating of the streets. Beyond, the shimmer of the blue sea, which for him meant safety. And, above, the dome of the blue sky, which for him meant liberty!

He wondered when he would grow accustomed to it.

"You will take care of Marjorie. Whatever happens, whether you marry her or not, don't let Despard get hold of her."

"You need have no fear on that score, old man."

There was a short silence. Rupert was still standing with his back to Jim, staring out of the window.

"There's a letter I'd like to write—to some one; some one very dear to me. I don't know where she is now. But I daresay you could find her. Perhaps you can guess——"

"You mean Miss Strode?"

Rupert nodded. He gave Jim her address and the name of the theatre where she had last played. "I want her to know that I'm well and safe—and—happy. Don't forget to emphasize the fact that I'm happy—because, perhaps it would be safer not to write—if you would see her and give her the message instead."

"I'll see her and give her your message. You mustn't write."

Again there was a short silence. Rupert took out the bundle of notes Jim had given him and fingered them thoughtfully. "I shan't want all this money. Ruby may be out of an engagement. I wish you would find a way of sending her half the amount you've given me."

"You stick to them. I'll see that she wants for nothing. That is the first thing I'll do when I get back. I daren't tell her even that you've escaped out of England, though of course, she'll guess. But I'll give her your message. Is that all?"

"I think that's all," Rupert replied. He found it very difficult to keep his voice under control. "Tell her—tell her I love her—and am grateful, always grateful."

Jim started. He made a movement towards Rupert, his lips framing a question. He checked it, and, turning away, rang the bell.

"And now for dinner and then the theatre. You had better go into the other room, Cotton, while I give my orders to the waiter, in case he saw you coming in with my bag—he might wonder what sort of game I was playing with my servant."

Rupert nodded and crossed the room. "I see you've got your name all right." Jim smiled.

As soon as dinner was ordered the two men strolled down to the lounge, and then Rupert remembered to tell Jim the incident of the General he had forgotten to salute, and the scene he had had with the sergeant.

Crichton laughed. "By jove, you might have got poor Jackson into a nice mess! But as you were carrying my bag and men are not supposed to salute when they're carrying things, I'll make it all right for you."

At eight o'clock they made their way to the theatre and found Captain Sparkes and his friend already occupying one of the boxes.

Four hours later they were walking beneath the starlit sky towards the Barbican. The captain was in a rare good humour with himself. They found the dinghy waiting for them at the appointed place. Sparkes and his passenger tumbled in unquestioned. The final farewells were shouted, the oars struck the water. The little boat pulled out and was soon lost to view.

Jim Crichton gave a slight sigh of relief, and, turning on his heel, walked back to the hotel. At the bureau he asked for a telegraph form, and, writing out a message, handed it to the porter with instructions that it should be sent off the first thing in the morning.

It contained three words. "Flight quite successful," and was addressed to "Marjorie Dale, Blackthorn Farm, Post Bridge."

Jim turned in at once. For the first time he realised that he was thoroughly exhausted. But sleep did not come. A dreadful fear seized him lest he had written his message a little previously. Captain Sparkes' boat was not due to sail until daybreak. Rupert would not be really safe until she was out of the Channel.

Long before sunrise Jim Crichton was standing at his bedroom window gazing with anxious eyes over Plymouth Sound.

A black speck on the blue horizon; a thin line of slowly drifting smoke! His glasses told him that the boat had sailed, and that Rupert Dale was safe.

CHAPTER XXIV.

RUBY'S DECLARATION.

The first thing Jim Crichton did—after he had made a successful return flight to Netheravon—was, on getting five days' special leave, to run up to London and search for Ruby Strode that he might keep his promise to Rupert. He resisted the temptation to pay a flying visit to Blackthorn Farm. Rupert was safe, a thousand miles or more away on his journey. But that made Jim the more anxious not to take the faintest risk.

Despard had been suspicious. Despard disliked him, and was in love with Marjorie. Jim had received a letter from her—short, carefully worded. It dealt principally with the doings of Post Bridge and the radium mine. The company would soon be floated, the prospectus was prepared, and, she stated, it was confidently expected that when it came out the capital would be over-subscribed.

Jim smiled to himself, for he read between the lines. He had little faith in the venture, perhaps, because he had no faith in Despard, though he hoped for John Dale's sake it would turn out successfully.

Soon after reaching London he discovered that his father was in town, and Jim frankly told him the object of his visit—to see Miss Strode and give her a message. Sir Reginald congratulated his son on his flight, but Jim did not dare tell him yet how successful it really had been, nor its real object.

"I think I'd like to meet this Miss Strode," Sir Reginald said, somewhat to Jim's surprise. "Though, I'm afraid, I still feel convinced of young Dale's guilt, I've never been able to eradicate from my mind the part she played at the trial—the strange outburst when she confessed it was she who altered the cheque. It seems, too, that when the solicitors saw her she said that Mr. Despard could, if he chose, prove the truth of her assertion. Of course, it's very possible that she and Rupert were equally guilty. Perhaps the suggestion came from her.... The woman tempted and the man fell. I'd like to know if Despard did keep anything back at the trial."

Jim nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But I should think the kindest thing would be to let Miss Strode forget all about it, if that's possible. Guilty or innocent, she must have been very fond of Rupert."

His father's suggestion came as a surprise to him. He had, during the last few weeks, cultivated Despard's acquaintance and seen a great deal more of him than Jim liked. But, as a rule, Sir Reginald never made a mistake in his judgment of men.

"Supposing Miss Strode could prove that Rupert is innocent, what then?" Jim asked.

"I don't think she can do that," Sir Reginald said quickly. "I'd like to discover what part she played in the unfortunate business. And perhaps she could enlighten us as to Despard's past history, his character—and so forth."

Jim smiled. "You're beginning to feel suspicious of this brilliant company promoter who is playing the Good Samaritan at Blackthorn Farm and trying to feather his own nest at the same time."

Sir Reginald did not reply at once, and looking more closely at him, Jim noticed that he looked worried. A heavy frown furrowed his brows. Presently he took Jim's arm and asked him where he was going.

"Well, my first visit is to the Ingenue Theatre. It seems rather too much to expect that I shall find Miss Strode there, but it's the obvious place to look."

"I'll walk with you," Sir Reginald said. "I've something I want to say to you."

Jim almost suggested that the best place to talk would be the sitting-room of Sir Reginald's hotel, in which they found themselves. But he refrained. He felt as if he had suddenly changed places with his father, and that it was the older man who wanted to unburden his mind and make a confession. Not until they were in the bustle and turmoil of the streets did Sir Reginald speak.

"I was talking to my solicitors to-day, and, of course, Mr. Despard's name cropped up."

"Why of course?" Jim asked.

There was a moment's hesitation before his father replied. "I had instructed my brokers to apply for a rather large number of shares in this—this radium mine when it is floated. I found it necessary to realise certain securities. My solicitors did not seem to have a very good opinion of Mr. Despard. They confessed they did not know much about him. They seemed to think him a man of straw. He has already been connected with one or two companies—rubber and oil, I believe, both of which went into liquidation shortly after they had been promoted. As you know, I'm one of the syndicate of this radium mine."

"I don't know anything about the game," Jim admitted. "But I didn't know that Despard had convinced you there was anything but water in the old Blackthorn mine. I'm sure he's a rotter. You're not worried, are you? I mean, he hasn't done you for any amount?"

"He hasn't done me at all," Sir Reginald replied testily. "He started by forming a little syndicate, and I—but you wouldn't understand. You mustn't forget we had expert opinion, and the reports read so well. If by any chance the venture fails—well, it would hit us rather badly. You must not forget," he added hastily, "that property has been depreciating lately, and that, in consequence, my income has been dwindling, and just when this fellow Despard came along I was looking about for a good investment."

Jim laughed and pressed his father's arm. He knew that Sir Reginald had been thinking of his future more than of himself. "The desire for wealth has never troubled me, guv'nor. Love in a cottage sounds sentimental rot, I know; but one's got to live somewhere, and as long as I've got work and the woman I want, a cottage will be good enough for me. Here's the Ingenue Theatre, so you had better leave me now unless you want to lose your reputation!"

Sir Reginald laughed. "I understand that the stage-door of a London theatre is a damned sight more respectable than the most fashionable matrimonial office, and that unless a man can produce a marriage licence he don't stand a chance of getting inside nowadays."

In answer to Jim's question the doorkeeper told him Miss Strode was playing, and that she generally left the theatre about eleven o'clock. Jim left his card, and said he would return at that hour. He arrived punctually, and had not to wait long before Ruby made her appearance.

He had never met her before, and at first he was not impressed. She treated him brusquely, and asked him plainly to state his business. He explained who he was and told her he had brought her a message from a friend. She looked him up and down, and he read mistrust in her eyes.

"Perhaps you'll walk as far as the end of the street with me," he suggested. She nodded. He told her he was engaged to be married to Rupert Dale's sister. "Can you guess from whom I bring a message?"

She started then, and her face grew deadly pale. She hesitated a moment, looking steadily into his face. Then she asked him to call a cab.

"Do you mind driving back to my flat with me? Yes, I live alone at present, but you needn't bother about the conventions. What people thought and said never troubled me much, and now it doesn't trouble me at all."

They scarcely spoke until her flat was reached. Ruby led the way into her sitting-room, mixed a whisky and soda for Jim and made one for herself.

"Would it shock you if I smoked?" she asked. "I can't help it if it does."

"I smoke myself," he replied quietly.

He saw a tinge of colour touch her cheeks. She apologised, and handed him the case. "Forgive me; but you're a soldier, aren't you?"

Jim nodded.

"I suppose you think women who earn their living at second-rate theatres, who smoke cigarettes, drink whisky instead of aniseed, and live alone, lose caste, don't you?"

He laughed and shook his head. "No. Why should I?"

"The Ingenue Theatre is largely patronised by the army, the navy, and the House of Lords. I've found that the youthful members of the aristocracy want to marry us, naval men want to amuse us, the army men expect us to amuse them—Aunt Sally up to date, six shies a penny!" She turned her back on him. "Will you tell me your message?"

"It's from a man called Cotton, John Cotton. You knew him under another name. He left Devonshire a week ago en route for Singapore. He wanted me to tell you that he was safe, that he loved you, and was deeply grateful for all you had done for him."

He waited, but Ruby Strode did not move. She still stood with her back to him. It was a long time before he dared break the silence.

"You understand?" he whispered.

Then at last she turned round and stood beside him. The expression on her face had changed. It was no longer hard and cold. Her eyes were tender and beautiful: the eyes of a woman who has loved. She stretched out her hand and Jim took it.

"You mean that Rupert has really escaped? That there's no chance of his being captured and taken back to prison?"

He bowed his head.

"Who helped him escape? Who got him out of England?"

"That doesn't matter," Jim replied. "It's enough for you to know that he's safe. He's bound for Singapore, where he'll find work—a man's work, under the British flag. He will, as the Americans say, make good yet."

He tried to withdraw his hand, but Ruby held it tightly. "You helped him. I daresay you didn't do it for his sake but for his sister's, the woman you love. But you helped him."

Jim did not reply. Bending down Ruby kissed his hand again and again. He snatched it away and turned on his heel.

"God bless you!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't go yet, Mr. Crichton. Tell me—tell me that you believe he's innocent?"

He looked at her then. And in her eyes he read her secret. If he had had any doubts as to Rupert's innocence they went now.

"I believe he is innocent. But—why couldn't he prove his innocence? If you did it, unknown to him——"

"Of course it was unknown to him," she interrupted. "He never suspected for a moment—how could he? That's why I did it. Oh, I was mad at the moment, but I loved him so! His life was in danger. He was going to kill himself. Why won't anyone believe—why can't anyone understand? Ruin, dishonour, faced him. When a woman loves nothing in the world matters but the honour, safety, and life of the man she loves. Being a man you may not have much of an opinion of women—the Lord knows why we love them so! Just as a man will die for his country, just as a soldier will kill, spy, suffer indignities, be tortured, rather than betray his trust, rather than see his country shamed or his flag hauled down, so will a woman do just the same rather than see her man hurt or the flag he carries dishonoured. Oh, I suppose it's only an idea that each fights for—the flag for the soldier, the man for the woman. The flag is his country and its future. The man is her mate and the children he will give her.... Can't you understand? I'm not defending myself; but they wouldn't believe me when I confessed, because they couldn't see why I should do it. The fools!"

"Surely you didn't think when you did this thing your crime would remain undetected?"

"A woman doesn't think when the man she loves is in danger. I tell you, if I hadn't found the money for him he would have taken his life. I had to find the money. The cheque was lying on the floor, he had forgotten it. The idea came. I acted on it. I didn't think. It was a crime, I daresay. One day, when you're at war, perhaps, and you capture a spy you'll shoot him. You know he's a brave man and a soldier doing a job you might have been deputed to do for your country. But you'll shoot him. That's a crime in its way, but you'll do it because it's your duty to your flag. If you stopped to reason, to think it out, you wouldn't do it. When I committed my crime I obeyed the orders of my heart—instinct—call it what you will. I wanted to save my man—who was to be the father of my children. That's all I knew or remembered. I didn't save him. It's not too late now—if only they would listen to me, if only they'd believe me."

"They will believe you if you can find proof."

"The man who can prove it won't speak. I believe he could prove my guilt and Rupert's innocence absolutely if he would speak. Several things have come to my knowledge since the trial. That man is Robert Despard. He has disappeared from London and I can't find him."

Ruby was walking up and down the room now, her head thrown back, her fists tightly clenched. She looked magnificent, terrible.

"If I could find him," she cried between her teeth, "I would accuse him of perjury. For he did perjure himself. He came into Rupert's sitting-room just after I had altered the cheque. I was holding it in my hand just underneath my glove, and he saw it there and asked what it was. I believe after I left the room he must have seen the marks on the blotting-pad. Things I had forgotten at the time, things he said, returned to me afterwards when it was too late. He knows, but he won't speak."

"Gently, gently," Jim said, taking her arm and making her sit down. "We must help you, my father and I. We'll force Mr. Despard to speak—we must clear Rupert's name if——"

"There's no if!" she cried.

"You realise that if we clear him it means that you take his place? You will be sent to prison."

She seized his hands and looked into his eyes. "For me, the day I enter prison and he is pardoned, will be the first happy day I shall have known since Rupert was arrested. I love him."

CHAPTER XXV.

AN EXCITING TIME.

Singapore!

The chain rattled through the hausehole with a deafening roar, and the great ship swung at anchor in the Roads.

A tropical sun beat fiercely down on the awnings, and Rupert Dale, leaning over the rail, gazed shorewards at the great plain framed in cocoanut palms—the Cathedral spire rising white and dazzling out of the green, fan-like leaves. To the left the brown slopes of Fort Canning, crowned with its giant flagstaff and fluttering flags. Round the ship a score or more of sampans tossed and jostled each other in the sparkling sea, their copper-skinned owners—naked to the loins—gesticulating and shouting in a language which sounded harsh and vehement to his unaccustomed ears. A strong, pungent odour of hot spice in which cinnamon predominated filled the air, while kites and eagles wheeled and swooped round him above the dancing waves.

Singapore! The gate of mystic, far Cathay! China—Japan—Siam—Borneo! Lovely Java, sea-girt Celebes. The spice islands! Lands of wonder and romance. The great Unknown, his future Home!

What a revelation it had been to him—the wonderful voyage. He had never been abroad before, and "foreign parts"—as anywhere out of England was called in Devonshire—were still a closed book.

Egypt! The Desert seen from the Suez Canal had impressed him. The Red Sea, with a distant glimpse of Mount Ararat, had brought the Bible story of the Israelite wanderings right before his eyes, for was not that the very "Wilderness" all round him? What was he but a wanderer in a strange land, surrounded by the desert of the sea—the promised land a mere speck on the chart—a tiny island away in the far north-west. The dear homeland, his home which he would never see again.

Then the miracle happened. First at Gib, then at Malta, Aden, Colombo, Penang, and now here. All along the vast ocean journey, four weeks long, wherever the great ship touched, there ashore flew the old flag, his flag. There stood his own countrymen on guard beneath its folds. Home? Why, he had brought it with him. There it was ashore now, and there stood his blood brother, white-helmeted, his bayonet flashing in the sun for witness of his birthright.