  There was a moment’s silence, as I edged toward the figure that had held the light. Before I reached it there was a scuffle a few feet to my left. I rushed toward it. It was a short fight. The man seemed to have little strength, but a great deal of determination to get away. He was nothing to our combined forces. In a moment John had him down, and I tied his hands behind him with my handkerchief. As an all-purpose tool, I recommend the humble handkerchief. Then, while I held our prisoner, John felt about on the path for the electric torch. After a moment he found it. By its light we stared at our capture. His hat had fallen off, and long chestnut hair tumbled loose about his—her, shoulders. She wore well-cut riding breeches, and was young and very good looking, though she was glaring at us furiously. “Hell!” I said. “My God,” said John. “It’s the Countess Visichich!” “’ow did you get away?” she demanded. “They told me you ’ad got out, but I couldn’t wait to find out ’ow. I never could see what ’arm you would do anyway—only ’e wanted to be sure. And you lied to me yesterday.” “Yesterday?” I echoed—“why, so it was only yesterday. At a guess I should have said week before last.” “What are we going to do now?” John asked crossly. “We can’t tie her up and leave her here. We can’t take her with us, and if we let her go she’ll bring all of the gang down on us before we even know where we are.” “Why not let me go?” she suggested, pleasantly. “That isn’t so easy,” John said, and sounded so sorry that I almost laughed at him. “You are gentlemen,” she continued, “what else can you do?” “Thank you,” I said. “We are complimented, but after all, you do present difficulties.” “I come of honorable antecedents,” she said, proudly. “And take them seriously,” I suggested. “Of course she does,” John took her part sternly. “If you will let me go,” she offered, “I swear I will say nothing of ’aving seen you for, say, twenty-four hours. Will that be long enough?” I agreed, gloomily, but John was more enthusiastic. “Of course, Countess, of course, it will be quite enough. We really ought to see you home, but there are difficulties, you know. Forgive us, won’t you?” “Oh, we are not civilised ’ere,” she laughed. “I am quite safe on this mountain alone, I assure you. No one could be safer. You might untie my hands, though, if you don’t mind.” John made a wry face, and let me do it, his own hands being in a state of skinlessness that would have been embarrassing to him if she had seen them, to say nothing of being painful. “We couldn’t quite,” I said, “tie a lady up and leave her helpless on a wild mountain side. It’s nice of you to help us out of our difficulties. Have you a watch, by the way?” “A watch?” she echoed. “Yes, what for?” “Will you give us your word to wait here for half an hour before you start on again?” “Oh, I say,” John interrupted. “That’s a bit thick, you know. She can’t do that, Carvin. She’s all alone, and she ought to get home as quickly as possible.” “Ten minutes?” she offered. “Very well,” I grumbled at her. “Ten minutes, then. It’s not very long, though.” I untied her wrists, and turned to continue our way down the mountain, taking advantage of the path. “You ’ave been very kind,” she said, suddenly, “I will do more for you. Something I should not do. If you go straight down that path you will meet the men of the Black Ghost. They are in camp at the foot of the mountain. If they had not been, you would have been followed. If you watch carefully, about one kilometer from ’ere you will find a path that branches off to the left. Keep to that, and you will come to a dirt road in the valley. Follow that road and you will come to another that will lead to Herrovosca, but farther west than the road of the Pass. I think you will prefer that. But I must warn you that even the road I suggest is not free from danger for you.” “Awfully good of you,” John said. “It would have been safer for you to ’ave killed me or to ’ave left me for wild animals to kill. I feel I am making you a very small payment on a great debt.” John was about to make some more remarks, so I took him firmly by the arm. “Only ten minutes,” I reminded him. “Come, now, and don’t waste time. We have to travel a long way.” He came, then, a little unwillingly, and with several backward glances to where we had left her sitting on a stone, slowly twisting up her long hair and shoving it under her hat in that seductive way women have with hair. When we were quite out of earshot I was surprised to hear John ask me, “shall we follow her directions or not?” I had supposed him too much under the spell of her personality to doubt her. “Why not?” I said. “Since we have no idea where we are, and she seems rather a decent sort, even to me, who have not fallen a victim to her charms. I don’t see why she shouldn’t do us a good turn to repay our decent treatment of her.” “That’s what I thought,” John said contentedly. “I’m glad you think so, too. She must have a swell time up here, swashbuckling around these mountains. Exactly my idea of the right way to spend a lifetime.” I laughed, though I was in the act of stumbling over a twig. Swashbuckling around a lot of bleak mountains in the dark was my idea of no way to spend a lifetime, or even a small part of it, and I said so. However, when we found the branch path to the left, we followed it, still going down the mountain, and, I hoped, not too far from the general direction of Herrovosca. The only thing that really puzzled me was her remark about the Black Ghost’s men being in camp. Just what did that mean? For one thing, that they weren’t up at their mountain stronghold, which accounted for our escape. But it would mean more than that. It probably meant trouble somewhere. The moon was full and high in the heavens when we finally came out on the roadway. A narrow, muddy roadway, deep with ruts. “A dirt road” had been the Countess’ description, I found it rather an understatement. It was a dirty road. I hoped John liked it, but I didn’t ask him. By that time I was too tired to waste energy asking silly questions. In the dark it was hard to judge distances or time, but I felt it should be near dawn. We must have followed it for two miles or more when the sound of a car drove us off the road. There was a high stone wall on either side at that point, and John said he’d rather be captured again than attempt to climb it, and he was sure he couldn’t make it if he did try. The lamps of the car showed us plainly to its occupants, and they came to a sudden stop beside us. A voice addressed us in Alarian, John cursed sibilantly in English, and the voice adopted that language obligingly, asking who we were and why we were there. I replied, “Our car broke down, and we had to leave it. We are trying to find help, and I fear we have lost our way.” “You are going away from the ’ighway. It is be’ind you about seven miles. Where did you leave your car?” That question was a difficult one. However, John answered it quickly enough. “We don’t know,” he said. “We’ve been walking, it seems, for years. We lost our way before the moon came up. We thought we’d find a house on this road, but it apparently goes nowhere.” “It goes,” the man said, sternly, “to Visichich Manor. If you will get in we will take you with us, but don’t be ’eadstrong because we ’ave revolvers.” There was no means of resisting them. We were exhausted and unarmed and John was suffering with his burned hands. We were seven miles from the highway, and heaven only knew how many miles from any inn or town on that highway. Altogether, we were fairly caught. John climbed slowly into the car, a little saddened, I feared, with the realisation that the Visichich woman had set us a trap. Not a mean trap, but a trap, for all that. She would undoubtedly keep her word and say nothing to anyone about having seen us, but she had arranged that we should not be a menace to the Black Ghost. My admiration for her increased a little. I wondered whether John would feel that way. It was a seven-passenger car. Our captors let down the two small seats in the tonneau, so that we sat facing them. They were right, of course. The state of the country was too unsettled to take chances. Our story of the broken car would not hold water, because they would not have passed any abandoned car on the way—unless, and that might be true—they had not come from the highway, but from the Black Ghost’s camp, which might be between their manor house and the road. It was possible they had not heard of our escape, and they still might believe our story. And there were twenty-four hours in which Countess Katerina would not tell them. There was still some hope we might get to Herrovosca. We rode on in silence for about twenty minutes, bumping uncomfortably over the bad road. Then we thundered through an archway and into an open space before the long low white building which we had first seen from the customs house. The ancient archway through which we had come, and the tower and wall connected with it, might have belonged to a fortress. A single light showed in the house. The driver of the car got down first and helped us out, then preceded us up to the door, and knocked loudly on it. Presently a servant came, and only then did our hosts get out. They kept discreetly behind us as we entered the wide hallway, and the driver showed us the way into a room at the right. It was an interesting room. The walls were white, the iron hardware was handwrought and I thought very old. Three hanging lamps supplied light of the oil age. The furniture was of that peculiarly ornate character which usually graces southern and central European homes. Against their severe white walls and rich carpets it loses the tawdry appearance that it would have among the gimcracks of our homes. The chauffeur and the servant remained in the doorway, in case we should make any disturbances, of course. I decided we would not. We stood in silence for several minutes, looking each other over quite frankly, each pair of us wondering how the other pair might fit into the complicated scheme of things in this Balkan state. The elder of our captors was a man of medium height, grey haired, with a beard and a mustache. Both their mouths had the same ruthless line as the Countess Katerina’s and they both had the same relieving lines of humor around their amber-brown eyes. Altogether they were not an alarming pair, and I judged they came to the same conclusion about us, for they relaxed in a moment or two, and the older man spoke. “Sit down gentlemen,” he invited. We obeyed willingly. We had walked enough that night to make sitting welcome. “Now, about that car,” he went on. “Perhaps you will tell me some details of it? I will have a man search for it in the morning.” “By morning,” John said easily, “it will quite likely have been stripped beyond recognition by the bandits that I hear are in these mountains.” The two men looked merely mildly surprised at the mention of bandits. “Bandits?” the younger inquired pleasantly, “you ’ave ’eard there are bandits ’ere?” “Yes,” John went on, “we were very anxious not to meet any of them when our car broke down. I can imagine a mountain bandit, supreme in his power and responsible to no one, could be a most unpleasant person to meet on a dark night. Especially so for two unarmed men.” “Who has told you of bandits?” The younger man seemed only slightly interested, as though he asked merely out of politeness. “We heard of them before we left Rheatia.” “Oh, Rheatia!” He dismissed Rheatia as though that overgrown neighbor of his were not worth mentioning. “In Rheatia you will ’ear many tales. The only bandit I know of in these mountains is Fakat Zol, the Black Ghost. You may ’ave ’eard of ’im?” “Yes,” John said, slowly, “that was the name.” “The ghost of Fakat Zol,” the man went on, slowly, “of course ’e is not a ghost, but it is true ’e maintains almost an army in the mountains. That is why the Rheatians ’ate him. ’is band ’as defeated them several times when they were bent on aggression. That is ’istory. No one goes through the Pass unless Fakat Zol permits. It ’as always been so. That is, it ’as been so for eight hundred years, which is long enough. He rules by superstition, tradition and right. Our ’istory is full of incidents of ’is appearance. ’e is like your English Robin ’ood, but become immortal.” “We are Americans,” John corrected. “The same thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You come from Rheatia?” “We came through Rheatia.” “You ’ave business in Alaria?” We went through the old story of the writer and the artist. I was so tired of it I wished that it might be safe to change our professions for a little variety. “At present,” the younger man said slowly, “Alaria is not a ’ealthy place for strangers.” “No?” I was all innocence, or tried to be. “Is there some trouble?” “There seems to be a slight uneasiness since the King’s death. You cannot tell what it may lead to. For the present I think we are all very tired. Let us continue our discussion in the morning.” He had not asked for passports, but I realised that by morning he would have made inquiries, and know exactly who we were. Our escape would undoubtedly be reported to him even if his daughter kept her word. There was nothing to do but allow ourselves to be led off to bed, hoping that we should be put where we could get out easily, though even if we got out of the house, there would still be the wall and its gate to pass. However, we were at least several miles nearer Herrovosca than we had been at midnight. We must content ourselves with that reflection and get some sleep, since we could not do anything else. They took us to a room in the ancient tower. It was quite comfortable enough to have been intended as a guest room instead of a prison cell, though it was not large. The walls were a good four feet thick, of solid stone, and we climbed up three flights of stairs to get to it. The view in the very early dawn was magnificent. Rolling hills to the south and west, and to the north and east, higher and yet higher and more jagged rose the mountains, all bathed in the romantic light just before the sun shows itself. “We really accomplished a big night’s work getting out of that piece of scenery,” John said, “I guess we deserve a rest.” I dressed his hands again with fresh water and the remaining handkerchiefs. They looked better than I had thought they would. Then we went to bed. The staircase by which we had come to our room did not end at our floor, but went on, whether to a roof or another floor I could not see. Outside on the landing a guard settled himself in a chair against our door. A few minutes after we were in bed I heard a low conversation between him and another man, then footsteps went upwards. As I lay quietly, looking out toward the highest mountains, I caught suddenly a flash of distant light from one of the lower peaks. It came and went intermittently, flashing in code, as they had flashed in code from the customs house to the tower we were now in. No doubt they were flashing a message about us, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that the point from which they were being answered was now visible, and must be the stronghold of Fakat Zol. I spent the next hour drawing a careful sketch of the mountain peaks, with an indication of the one from which the signals came, and put the sketch in my shoe under the pass from the Queen. Then I lay down again, feeling like the best of counter-plotters. I wondered what my quiet newspaper friends at home would think of me. They didn’t think they were quiet, but the best they could do for excitement was a night at a speakeasy, or a little poker, with an occasional big murder case to liven the day’s work. And with that comforting thought I went to sleep. I dreamed of witches in Salem being crushed by the weight of huge stones on their chests. I was a witch, and the stone struck suddenly, and was followed by a shout from the onlookers, and then by another. I sat up in bed, sneezing, and found that a large piece of plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and struck me on the chest. The dust was so bad I felt choked. I looked up at the place from which it had fallen, and saw a large hole, and in it a man’s face peering down at us. He was not altogether a pleasant looking person, and seemed to be more the night club type than a wily politician who would deserve imprisonment. He had bulgy dark eyes, a curly brown mustache and thick wet lips above a three days’ growth of beard. He was speaking to us in Alarian. “We don’t speak Alarian,” I said. “Sorry, can’t understand you.” The man immediately switched to English, “Quick, you hide the plaster,” he ordered, “they will not know, perhaps. Be quick, I tell you, they may come any time.” John lay looking up at him, “Oh, all right,” he said. “We’ll do that for you, but you needn’t be so upset about it.” He got out of bed slowly, groaning with the stiffness of his muscles. I slid out as carefully as I could so as not to disturb the plaster. Then I looked at John’s hands. They were much improved. “Be all right in a few days,” John said. “Really not bad at all now, they have stopped smarting entirely.” The man above scolded at us. “Time for that later,” he said, “hide the plaster, now, quick.” “Shut up!” I ordered, “I’ll hide that plaster when and if I get good and ready.” He replied in a string of Alarian which I judged to be oaths of no mean venom. For a moment he left the hole, probably to tear his hair. I then rebandaged John’s hands, and when I had finished, the man above was again peering down through his hole and seemed inclined to treat us with less abruptness. At least he was silent while I pulled the bed apart, found two mattresses on it, spread all of the plaster I could gather up between them, and then remade the bed, taking a great deal of trouble to have it look as much as possible as though it had been slept in. My efforts did not satisfy John. He laughed at me, lay down on the bed, and rolled around on it. When he got up again the bed was perfect. It was tumbled just enough. “There is one place beside the washing table,” I was directed again. I didn’t wish the man any harm, and for the time being, of course, we were friends of the Visichiches’ enemies, but he was peculiarly irritating. However, I picked up the piece beside the washstand, and tossed it out of the window. He grunted a protest, but said nothing. I had barely finished when there came a knock at the door, and when I had opened it, a man gave us a large can of hot water, a flat leather case containing seven old-fashioned razors—one for each day in the week and I hoped we shouldn’t have time to use them—a whisk broom, two tooth brushes, a cake of perfumed toilet soap, and a note. The latter bore no signature. It read, simply, “When you are ready to come down stairs, knock on the door. The man will be waiting for you. We will discuss our affairs over lunch.” John, meanwhile, had been dressing. His hands handicapped him a little, but not seriously. “You’re not to get them wet,” I said, and I washed his face for him, and shaved him. It was a risky business with the open razors, but I accomplished it with no great casualties, and then brushed our clothes, and shined our shoes with a towel. “Oh, for a whole lot of clean clothes, and a cold shower,” I said, remembering with a sigh the little pleasant luxuries of life back home. The common people in the Balkans look on bathing as at least unorthodox, if not actually sinful, and very unhealthy, and the upper classes have only progressed beyond the Saturday night stage if they have lived in more civilised communities. In other words, the people of the Balkans live as our grandparents did. At last we were ready, but before we knocked on the door we whispered “Good-bye” to the man above us. He had recovered his poise, and smiled down quite pleasantly. “Gentlemen,” he spoke very softly because of the man outside the door. “Tell me, gentlemen, you are guests here? You are friends of the Count Visichich?” “Not in the least,” John answered, casually, “we are very probably prisoners here, though no one has said so yet.” “Ah,” the face above was suddenly wreathed in smiles. He looked almost a decent sort of chap when he smiled, and vaguely familiar. Probably, I considered, because he was so very much the night club type. “If you find you are not prisoners,” he asked, “where will you go?” “We had started for Herrovosca,” I answered. “If they let us we’ll go there.” He smiled again, this time almost supplicatingly. “And you are Americans, yes?” “Yes, we told you that.” “I know, I know. Will you take a message for me in Herrovosca, if you can get to it? But if you cannot go yourselves will you write it to someone I will tell you?” “Is it likely to get us into trouble?” I asked. “Trouble?” he shook his head so protestingly, so innocently, that I knew he was lying. “Trouble? Oh, no, gentlemen, not possible.” And then he stopped and thought for a moment. “Wait, only, please,” he said, and was gone for a few seconds. When he reappeared he reached down through the hole, and gave me a folded piece of paper. His arm was covered with a loose brown sleeve of rough material, but the hand was smooth and white and the nails were polished. The hand and the sleeve did not match at all. I took the paper and turned it over. There was nothing on the outside. “Open it,” he directed, still smiling ingratiatingly, “it is instructions that will admit you to the presence of the Queen Yolanda. My message is to her.” “Is this the message?” I asked. It looked too short. “No,” he said. “The message is for you to tell her. I do not wish to write it on paper. Perhaps someone would find it, then it might make you trouble. You will tell the Queen—h’m—there is no need, perhaps, to tell her anything, except that I am here, and I wrote that paper. Only when you see her, tell her how I look. See, carefully, and that will be enough. Yes, gentlemen. You will do that?” “Yes,” I said. “If we are able to get to the Queen we will certainly tell her about you, but don’t you want to tell us your name?” “No,” he said, “no. I think I will not tell my name. Only tell her how I look, and if you cannot see her, write to her. It will be enough. À dieu, gentlemen, I will nevaire forget you have help me. I will always be most grateful to you.” His face disappeared again. John and I exchanged glances. He smiled a little, shrugged his shoulders, and I took off my shoe and put the third piece of paper in the heel. It began to feel stuffed, and the lace spread a little wider than that on the other foot. Then we knocked on the door, and heard the key grate in the lock, and our prison was opened. I closed the door behind us, and noticed that there was no guard on the stairs below except the man who preceded us. Above, I heard the scrape of a boot, and knew that there was a guard outside the door of the man with the polished finger nails. He had a chance, then, to get out, by dropping down to our bed, which would dull the sound of his fall, and the door of our room was not locked now. We were bowed through the door of a large dining room, and John said “Oh” appreciatively, as he saw it. Like the whole house, the walls and woodwork were white, with heavy wrought iron hardware of intricate patterns showing smartly black against it. The furniture was polished or painted with scenes and portraits, or covered with colored leather or vivid brocades. It was fresh and bright, and I liked it. John spoke in praise of it. “My God,” he said, “it would be priceless in New York. The decorators would go mad with excitement.” He leaned down to examine a series of tiny brilliant medallions painted on the top of a chest. “But what a crime it would be to move it,” he said. “Here it is perfect, with the mountains outside as a complement.” “It’ll make a pleasant memory,” I said. “I’m getting pretty fond of home, suddenly. It was nice and comfortable there.” “Yes,” John said. “Yes, I suppose so.” But he didn’t sound as though he meant it entirely. He was absorbed in studying the lovely old furniture. Our two captors came in, then. They looked refreshed and ready for the day. I knew that we did not. In spite of our brushing and shaving we were still bedraggled and rumpled and unpresentable. The last two days and nights had been almost as hard on our appearance as on our feelings, but we must have been a great improvement on the two unshaven tramps they had found on the road the night before. The elder introduced himself. “I am Colonel Count Visichich,” he said. “This is my son, Lieutenant Count Ivan Visichich, in charge of the customs house at the foot of the Pass. I have also a daughter who will be ’ere in a moment. When she arrives we will eat lunch. Meanwhile it would be well to sit down. You gentlemen are probably not yet fully rested. I am afraid you ’ad a difficult time last night.” We sat on a long carved bench with a crimson damask cushion. It was under a window and faced the door. John was absorbed in two very old portraits that hung across the room. He was so much absorbed in them, indeed, that he did not notice the Countess Visichich when she entered the room. “Katerina,” said the Colonel, “I wish to present the two gentlemen of whom I spoke to you. Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Countess Katerina Visichich.” We both hesitated, to see whether she would show any sign of having seen us before. She did not, but bowed formally. She was keeping the letter of her word to us. I was not surprised. I had already decided that she probably would do that. She had the courteous manners of a Frenchwoman, together with a barbaric sense of honor, and a fearlessness that was the result of her half civilised surroundings and not-too-distant nomad ancestors. She smiled at us candidly. “My father and brother tell me you came ’ere late last night,” she said. “Just before I returned myself, in fact. Yesterday was very busy for many of us, it would seem. I am so glad you—’appened to find your way here. It was better as sleeping on the road, no?” Her eyes teased us, she might be our jailor but she was a pleasant and a friendly one. “You ’ave ’urt your ’ands,” she went on concernedly, to John. “Please, may I be of service? I have studied in the ’ospitals—almost I am a nurse. Come with me—yes?—and I will fix them.” She led John out of the room, talking as they went, while the two Visichich men entertained me assiduously for a quarter of an hour until she chose to bring John back again, his hands swathed in great white mounds of gauze. They were no doubt very professional, but they looked ridiculous, and I saw that he meant to get them off again as soon as possible. “I have been very cruel to ’im,” she announced, “but my cruelty was of a moment only, and he is already almost well again of it.” They smiled at each other, and we sat down to lunch. We were treated like guests of the house. I hoped that was an omen of release, but somehow I doubted it. I could not see why they should let us go, and I was right. After we had finished the meal, they led us to the garden. As we stepped out into the sunlight the old Count said, gently, “You gentlemen will find time a little ’eavy on your ’ands, I fear. So long as you do not go beyond the archway you are quite free to wander as you will through the garden as long as we remain at ’ome. I regret that we must leave late this afternoon, and must then request you to return to the tower for a time. I am sure you understand me without further explanation.” He offered us cigarettes, and as we took them he said, “I ’ave warned you, gentlemen. This is an uncivilised country.” It might be uncivilised, but the manners of its people were perfect. I began to wish that a few of my former bosses could have said threatening things—or unthreatening ones, for that matter—half so pleasantly. He seemed to be laughing at some kindly joke, as he waved his hand at us, and turned away into the house followed by his son. The Countess Katerina stepped down to a low, tiled terrace. “Come look at my roses for a moment,” she called, “then I shall be obliged to leave you, too. I am a very busy woman—so much ’ousekeeping!” She laughed a little. That might easily be a joke, though I could imagine the Countess Katerina an excellent housekeeper. European ladies, especially southern European ladies, waste very little of their time going to parties as American ones do. They learn, instead, every step in the primitive keeping of their homes—spinning, weaving, lace-making and all the rest of the thousand arts that with us are represented by the corner delicatessen and the department store. Not that I suspected the Countess Katerina of leaving us to make lace. For that day at least I was sure her cares were not of the house. We looked at the roses. Beautiful roses, in a sunken garden, to protect them from the cold winds of the mountains. Countess Katerina broke off a lovely peach-colored bud and put it in John’s buttonhole; she took less time when she did it for me. “Do you grow roses in America?” she asked. I laughed. “Yes,” I confessed, “in fact, at the last formal dinner I went to before I came away the conversation was so horticultural you might easily have supposed it a gardener’s convention.” She looked a little puzzled at that until John explained the nature of a convention. “In Alaria,” she said, “there are not many rose gardens. This is the finest in the country. I ’ad an English aunt, the wife of my uncle. She made this garden, with brick walls around it, like England. We do not use many bricks ’ere. There is so much stone. But she would ’ave it, and I like it. Every year there is a man in London who sends us new flowers. They are so nice.” She pulled a small red one, “See—’ow sweet it smells?” She poked it at John’s nose, then at mine. From the house there was a shout, then a bell began to ring, like an old-fashioned fire-bell. There was more shouting in a different tone. Countess Katerina turned and ran back without a word. “Our friend from the room upstairs has been missed,” I said. “She’s a swell girl,” John said by way of answer. “Don’t be a fool,” I protested, “everybody is busy hunting that chap who dropped the plaster on us. If we look around we may find a way out while they are looking for him.” “It seems a mean advantage to take of her,” John began, but he blushed as he caught my look, and said, “Oh, all right. Yes, of course, I suppose we must. Come along, then, quietly, and let’s see what we can find.” We walked up the five steps from the rose garden, and tried to be as casually inconspicuous as possible. A car snorted and pop-popped to our right, and then the motor started and it drove away, cut-out open, roaring like a plane. A second followed in a moment. Two men shouted. Another appeared above us on the roof of the old tower, his head just showing above the battlements. Some electrical instrument up there began making a fizzy noise like a radio, but as there were no aerials visible I decided it must be a daytime version of the heliograph. A radio would be too public for these people, and a telephone too easily put out of order. The manor was really a collection of buildings strung together after the fashion of northern New England farm houses, but these were less geometric. They had been built to conform to the shape of the hill rather than with any studied plan. The wall which circled the whole was high enough to keep off marauders, but not high enough for any defense against determined attack. The house itself was a maze of walls and gateways constituting, so far as we were concerned, an inner series of barriers against escape. Thus the garage, to the right of the place we stood when the two cars went out, was only a few feet from us, but in order to reach it we turned in the opposite direction, through an opening in a low stable, passed an enclosed yard full of chickens and ducks, with a pond in the center, and a movable pen containing two sheep busily engaged in cropping the lawn, through another gateway with a crude wooden gate, into another yard with a cow, past the cow, and there, on our left, was the garage, and in it, at the back, stood a third car. I walked forward a few steps to a spot where I could see the outer gate. A sentry was walking back and forth on the inside, but the gate itself was open. I nodded to John, who immediately climbed in. Behind us, in the garden, the Countess called, anxiously. “Quick,” John whispered, “they’ve missed us.” I jumped in behind the wheel. The key was in the lock. I slipped into high, and let out the clutch very slowly as I stepped on the gas with the other foot. The car moved, and began to creep forward almost noiselessly. Before the sentry saw us we had reached him. He jumped aside just in time to save himself, and we were through the forbidden gate. The road sloped suddenly downward, then to the right in a sharp curve. Just as we rounded it two shots rang out behind us. “All right,” I said. “Nothing hit.” “Nothing but me,” said John. “Where?” I demanded, alarmed, and swung the car in an abrupt and rutty curve. He groaned. “Right arm. I don’t think I’m going to do anything strange, faint or anything like that, but you can’t tell. If I do, don’t pay any attention, for God’s sake, but keep on going. Good driving, old man. We’d never have made it if you had stopped to shift gears.” “Luck,” I said. As it was, with a strange car. “It might have stalled just as well as not. Hold on to the seat, we’ll have to make as good time as we can for a while in spite of your arm. If they catch up with us they’ll shoot us up some more.” For the next three miles, perhaps, we drove down the rough and muddy road, then John slowly slumped down in his seat, so that I had to slow the car while I held him so that he would not fall on the gear lever. I felt guilty that I was always urging that we escape, and John was always getting hurt doing it. |
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