BOOK FIVE The Man Hunt (continued 2)

Less than a kilometre away, was the station; a freight train laden with logs was drawing ponderously out. He decided to let it pass, before continuing down the track. He waited impatiently. It had occurred to him that perhaps he was exposing himself too much; and he was drawing back when he heard a shout, ... a shout of fury and of triumph.

With a heart leap of fear he recognized the three men who were hunting him. What ghastly misfortune! They were on horseback too. Castelli, who had been searching the hillside with a pair of powerful glasses, had been the one to discover him. He handed the glasses to Doctor Bergius and pointed to Hugh. At the same instant Gamba leaped from his horse, crossed the railway track and launched in pursuit.

For a dazed moment Hugh cursed his folly in thus exposing himself, then turned and crashed back into the brush. It was very thick and he made progress with difficulty. At this rate he would surely be caught. Then to his joy, he came upon a little trail that descended and skirted the railway. He raced along it.

Once with panting lungs he stopped to listen. Was he being followed? He heard a cracking of underbrush; Gamba had taken a short cut and was appallingly near. Hugh tore on again. The trail broke from the forest and skirted a bluff that overhung the railway, running along it for about three hundred yards. As Hugh came out on this exposed stretch his heart sank. Here at last he was surely trapped. To his right was the steep cut to the railway, to the left the dense brush of the forest. The only way of escape was straight ahead. If only he could make the end of the pathway before Gamba reached him.... Well, he must do his best.

He had gone but a short distance when Gamba crashed into the open. The little man was as fleet as a deer, as sure-footed as a goat. Hugh knew he had no chance; but with the strength of despair he pounded on. There was a roaring in his ears. The train! It was puffing and clanking below him. Gamba was gaining on him fast. As he dashed on, Hugh noticed that the bluff dipped, so that in one place it was only about ten feet above the track. If he could make this gap, leap the track and reach the gully that lay on the other side, there was a chance he might yet escape. He made a desperate spurt to gain it.

But he had reckoned without the train. As he got to the lowest point of the cut, it was passing just below him. Again luck was against him. He must wait until all those heavy wagons had lumbered by. Gamba was only fifty yards behind him. Oh, that cursed train! Would it never pass! But why wait? Why not ... ah! that was an idea. Desperate, maybe, but he would stick at nothing.... Nerving himself he leaped, and fell sprawling on the train.

Fortunately he landed between two huge logs. He was bruised and shaken, but he raised himself immediately. He had alighted about midway in the line of wagons and there were three others still to pass the place from which he had jumped. Now one had passed, then the second, then, just as the third and last wagon was rumbling by Gamba reached the point.

He hesitated, stared for a moment as if confused, then caught sight of Hugh. He looked down at the last of the passing wagons. Was he, too, going to jump? Hugh held his breath. No, Gamba could not make it. That little moment of hesitation had been fatal; even as he crouched to spring, the last wagon rolled from beneath him.

Hugh heard a yell of anger. As if dumbfounded, Gamba stood on the point of rock shaking his fists in impotent rage at the train carelessly lumbering on its way.

It grew dark quite suddenly. Hugh heard the puffing of the engine, and saw a cloud of steam with an under-glow of orange. In spite of his bruises he was feeling extravagantly happy. How lucky to have jumped on the train! At the rate they were going he would be in Agaccio in an hour. He breathed freely now. Freedom, safety lay ahead. Soon, very soon, he would be on the boat for Marseilles. Then ho! for Paris.... What was the matter? They were slowing up.

Yes, they were stopping at a station. He hoped it would not be a long stop. In any case he must be well ahead of his pursuers by now ... that is, if they had not given up the pursuit. There in the dusk he lay between the two great logs, and once more congratulated himself on his escape. The air was rich with the perfume of pines, and the stars were like glow-worms in the fields of heaven.

Hark! What was that? He was horribly nervous. As he strained his ears, he fancied he heard the distant beat of galloping hoofs. They came nearer. He heard them drumming on the road that ran beside the railway track. He might have known it; his enemies were racing to cut him off. Had they arrived at the station before the train, they could have easily captured him. What an escape! And now they were drawing closer. When they got too close, he would take to the forest. Then the awful nerve-racking hunt would begin again.

In imagination he saw them, spurring and lashing their horses, straining every nerve to reach the station before the train pulled out. Would it never start? The drumming hoofs sounded very near indeed. The engine-driver lighted his pipe, and made some joking remark to the station master. At last, he turned and jumped up to his cab. Thank God! the train was in motion.

It cleared the station and gathered speed, plunging once more into the forest. And not a moment too soon! Hugh looked back to see three horsemen dash into the light, leap from their horses and run forward. Too late!...

A few miles further on the train came to another halt. Perhaps it was imagination, but Hugh thought he heard again the sound of furious galloping. He heaved a sigh of relief when once more they were under way.

Soon the lights of Agaccio appeared and the train slowed up. Hugh jumped down and made for the harbour. With a thrill of joy he boarded the steamer, and, going forward, mingled with a crowd of garlic-flavoured Corsicans.

When the boat cleared and blew her whistle it sounded to him like a hoarse bellow of triumph. As she stood out to sea he looked back at the lights of the harbour. He fancied he still heard the galloping of exhausted horses, and the curses of three maddened men. Perhaps they were there now, standing on the wharf, gazing in rage and despair after the departing steamer. He hoped they were.

“Corsica, farewell!” he cried. “As long as I live I’ll never set foot on your shores again. I’m free, free once more. And now for Paris ... Margot....”

CHAPTER EIGHT MARGOT

HOW strange is the romance of destiny! Four nights before he had lain in a cave in the hinterland of Corsica, listening to a brigand’s tale of blood, and now, behold, he was in Paris, walking the Boulevard Montparnasse, and searching for a certain number.

He found it, an old house sandwiched between two modern ones. Looking up to its mansarded roof he saw a window alight, a window with a small balcony. That must be her room. He had heard her speak of it so often, her “Mansard of Dreams” as she called it. His heart beat excitedly; then suddenly he saw a shadow on the blind. Yes, it was her shadow, Margot’s. Should he go up? He thought not. It was too late. She was probably very busy, preparing for the morrow, her marriage morn. No, he would not bother her to-night.

While he was thus arguing with himself, his feet were carrying him to the door. A fat concierge was giving a Pekinese spaniel an airing. Suddenly he heard himself asking.

“Does Mademoiselle Leblanc live here?”

“Yes, monsieur. Fifth floor. Door to the right.”

It sounded like an invitation to go up, and he accepted it. As he mounted the broken stairs, his heart beat faster. Very silly this! Why should making a call on her so excite him? It was hard to believe that she was there. It seemed years since he had seen her,—far back in a somewhat uncertain past.

He found himself at the door, knocking. How his confounded heart was knocking too! Damn! He could hear her moving about inside. Perhaps she thought it was some one else. Perhaps when she saw it was he, she would be disappointed. She was taking a long time to open the door. He felt a great longing come over him, a great tenderness. He would take her in his arms, kiss her, overwhelm her with passionate caresses.

He did none of these things. When the door opened, he was the punctilious, rather cold, young man she had always known.

“Good evening,” he said politely.

“You!”

She stood staring at him; her blue eyes big in her pale face; her hands up to her heart as if to still its tumult. She wore a loose black peignoir that showed off by contrast the pearly whiteness of her skin. Against the background of her pale gold hair her face was delicately sweet. For the hundredth time she reminded him of a lily.

“It is, indeed, you?”

She took both his hands and pulled him gently into the room. She had pinned up her hair rather hastily, and it came tumbling about her. As she raised her hands again to pile it about her head, he stopped her.

“No, leave it like that. It was like that the first time I saw you. I will always think of you that way.”

She let it fall, a shimmering cape around her.

“I’m sorry,” she said faintly, “to receive you in this poor shabby room. Please sit down on that chair. It’s my only one.”

He took it. She herself sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him.

“I hurried to get here,” he told her awkwardly. “I wanted to be present at the ceremony,—even if only as a spectator in the background.”

“What ceremony?”

“Your wedding, to-morrow.”

“Why, didn’t you know? I wrote to tell you I’d refused him.”

“I didn’t get the letter. You refused him.... Why?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t care enough for him. I don’t think shall ever marry.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Working,—with Jeanne. We are taking a shop. I thought it was she when you knocked.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, happier than I have ever been in my life.”

“And I am more miserable.”

“You! Why?”

“Because ... I’m lonely. Look here, Margot, I want you. I only realized how much I needed you after you went away—how much you mean to me. I say, Margot, I suppose I’m a stiff, cold sort of a chap. I can’t do the sentimental stuff. I can’t make pretty speeches, but I really do care for you.”

“As a sister?”

“No, an awful lot more than that! I can’t do without you, dear. I know it now. I knew it the moment I’d thought I’d lost you. Don’t tell me I’ve lost you, Margot.”

He leaned forward, staring anxiously into her eyes. She sat quite still, her breath coming fast.

“Marry me, Margot,” he faltered, “Me!”

She seemed made of ice. “That’s very kind of you,” she said.

“Not at all, Margot. Believe me, I’m not kind. I’m humble. I’m pleading. I’ll get down on my knees if you like.”

“No, please don’t.”

“Look here....” He suddenly leaned forward. He took a handful of her shining hair and twisted it into a great golden rope, then wound it around her white throat.

“Margot,” he said savagely, “if you don’t say yes, I’ll strangle you right here. Say yes.”

“Is it to save my life I must say yes?”

“Your life—and mine.”

“Well, if it’s to save yours, too.... Yes!”

The tension was over. He rose. He was radiant. He laughed.

“I’ll see the British Consul to-morrow; and we’ll get hitched up in a few days. Now I’m going. I want to be alone, to realize my happiness, to sing to the stars. I want to celebrate, to get drunk. Margot, may I get drunk to-night?”

“What!”

“With joy I mean. I want to sit in a café by myself and let my happiness soak in gradually. I want to smile like an idiot over a café crême and have people look at me twice, and say, ‘Mais ... il est fou, ce gars la....’ I want to laugh loudly at the moon, and dance the can-can by the Carpeaux fountain. Oh Margot, Margot....”

Down in the street a passing sergent de ville who happened to look up at the lighted mansard window, saw two separate shadows on the blind. The masculine shadow reached out to the feminine one, then the two shadows became one.

“Ah! Ces amoureux!” he remarked with a shrug as he went on his way.

CHAPTER NINE AND LAST

A YEAR later Hugh sat at his desk, reading the following letter:

My Dear Chap:

I wrote to you in Menton, and the letter came back. But the other day a man in the office saw you in Paris and gave me your address. He also gave me a very good account of you; I am glad, for I have often felt anxious about you. I hope now that you have again taken up the burden of the wage-earner, you are not finding it too heavy. I’ve become a professional ink-slinger. You remember me as a dilettante, a trifler. I wrote whimsical essays; I cultivated an urbane humour. Then one day in a fantastic mood I started a burlesque of the German spy novel. I showed it to a bloated publisher who refused to publish it as a burlesque, but suggested that it would go as a serious effort. He thought the public would take it that way. The public did.

So now behold me, a popular author, a six shilling shocker to my credit, another half-done, and many more in my mental incubator.

Of course, on the strength of my success I resigned from Gummage & Meek. We had saved a few thousand pounds, so if literature proves more of a staff than a crutch, we won’t be altogether on the rocks. Better still, a preposterously rich bachelor brother of my wife’s has promised to see the two boys through school and college. In short, I find at last my dream realized. I am free to cultivate my literary cail-yaird.

I want now to find some quiet place where I can live in a leisurely way, polish my gems, and generally lead a pleasant, tolerant, contemplative life. Do you, with your knowledge of the south of France, know of such a place? The exchange rate now is so advantageous.

Please rub a little liniment on your strong right arm, grip your pen with intense determination, and favour me with a few lines.

Sincerely, Arthur Ainger.

Hugh looked round the shabby but comfortable room he called his den. There was a roll-top desk, crimson-curtained book shelves, a big easy chair by the window, many unframed canvases on the walls. His eyes rested on each article with loving satisfaction.

“Good old chap,” he said, “I’ll answer his letter right away.”

So he sat down at his desk and began:

Dear Mr. Ainger:

I am more than ashamed that I have never written to you; but so many things have happened. To begin with I have a modest apartment near the Luxemburg Gardens. I was married a year ago. My wife’s a jolly good sort. You’d like her. I intended after my marriage to get work of some kind, but the unexpected happened. It seems I had a maternal grandmother living in Monaco. She had quarrelled with my mother; and though she gave consent to the marriage she refused to be reconciled. When she died it was found she had left everything to me. They had some trouble in finding me, but through the old chap who brought me up, they eventually did.

I now find myself the owner of a property in the Condamine that nets me twelve thousand francs a year, enough for two quiet people to jog along on quite comfortably. After all, I’ve come to the conclusion I’m one of those simple souls who want to slip through life with as little trouble as possible to themselves and to every one else.

My hobbies are cars and painting. I am the proud possessor of a little Buggatti in which I whiz the wife out to Barbizon occasionally. Otherwise I attend the Ecole des Beaux Arts and am doing quite well. In time I hope I’ll make an averagely good artist, and occasionally sell a croute.

I am so glad to hear of your success. The sort of books you write are the sort I like. But then I am not exacting, and read to take my mind off the monotony of existence. Sometimes, you know, on a wet day when one can’t paint and there’s no billiard table, a good yarn’s not a bad thing to pass the time. I imagine there’s a whole lot like me.

By the way, you speak of finding a quiet corner where you can hole up and live cheaply. I have a little cottage at Villefranche which I can offer you. There’s not much in the way of furniture, but you can stay there as long as you like and what with the produce of a big garden and the fish you can catch, the cost of life is reduced to a minimum.

Now don’t refuse....

Hugh had got this far when Margot entered. He handed her his letter to read.

“Why,” she said indignantly, “you’ve left out the most important thing of all.”

“Oh, yes, I quite forgot about that.”

“Forgot! Listen. The precious little darling! He’s crying for me now.”

“Yes, his lungs are better than his looks.”

“I like that. Everybody says he’s the image of you. Now, I must run.”

“All right. I’ll put him in the postscript.”

Hugh added a few more words as he listened to the subsiding wails of his son and heir. Then throwing himself in his easy chair with a laugh of utter happiness he lit his pipe.

THE END