F. J. Randall

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The detectives of Dibbs and Dubbs usually began their sentry-go at Brunswick Terrace as the clock struck eight. On the morning following George Early's second encounter with Caroli, Mole was at his post at six. Looking over the bedroom curtains at half past, George noted the fact and swore softly. He completed his toilet, and, picking up the shabby portmanteau he had packed the night before, made his way to the back door.

The sleek top hat and frock coat of business had disappeared, and George stood arrayed in the loudest of check suits, covered by a loose light coat; on his head was a cloth cap. In this array he made his way out of the back gate, traversed the passage sacred to the tradesmen who supplied Brunswick Terrace, and emerged in a mews, which led to a main thoroughfare at right angles to that where the patient Mole kept watch.

George peeped cautiously round the corner: the coast was clear. He hailed a disconsolate cabman, who had all but given up hope of a fare, and drove off to Victoria.

Arrived at the station, some strategy was necessary to make sure that the detectives were really evaded. George narrowly watched the movements of the men who loitered about the platform, and made feints of leaving the station to see if any would follow him. Finding that nobody took any interest in his movements, he approached the booking clerk and ordered his ticket in a whisper. The train and George went off soon after seven without any further excitement than the frantic barking of a dog, that had been left behind.

It was perfectly obvious that George Early intended to checkmate his enemies by discreetly withdrawing from London for a time. In the seclusion of the country he would be able to formulate some plan of campaign by which both lawyers and blackmailers would find that they had met their match.

George got out at a small station forty miles or so down the line. The only other passenger to alight was a young woman with three paper parcels, who had evidently too many personal troubles to be concerned in watching the movements of any young man. Having inquired of the one porter the whereabouts of the Wheatsheaf Inn, the fugitive chief of Fairbrothers' had the satisfaction of finding a three-mile walk before him.

The landlord of the Wheatsheaf was not troubled much with visitors, although he advertised his house as the most popular in the country. George found himself to be the one and only guest.

"What is there to do about here?" he asked, when he had disposed of a substantial meal.

"Do?" said the landlord, evasively. "It depends on what you want to do."

"I'm not particular," said George. "I've come down for a bit of a change. Any fishing here?"

The landlord lifted one hand, and wagged his head.

"You've hit on the one thing we haven't got. Anything but fishing."

"Shooting?" said George.

"Not at this time o' the year. You won't get shooting anywheres just now."

Fishing and shooting were all that George could think of, and he was not an adept at either.

"If you'll take my advice," said the landlord, looking his visitor over critically, "you'll just go easy at first. You've been overdoing it, I can see, and you're fair run down. You don't want no shootin' nor fishin', but plenty of good grub and a drop of good beer. I've seen young fellers the same way before. You take my tip and go easy."

As there appeared to be nothing else to do, George had to be content with this programme. He walked out for the rest of the morning, and for the greater part of the afternoon; the evening was spent in the bar-parlour, where the landlord's old cronies drank George's health and advised him to "take it easy."

Next morning the landlord handed over a telegram, which read—

"Have discharged all three—very indignant; take care of yourself; new men coming in to-day—Ellen."

"Now my little beauties," said George, smiling, "we'll see how you like that. Perhaps your friend Caroli can mesmerize some one into giving you a new job."

Three days of inaction passed, and George had not seen fit to desert his country retreat. It was slow work walking, eating, and drinking, and the new master of Fairbrothers' was beginning to fall back on the philosophy of the ancients, that wealth and position invariably have their disadvantages.

This morning it was raining, and he stood at the inn door debating whether he should brave the elements or retire to the bar-parlour. The problem was solved for him swiftly in an unexpected fashion. A carrier's cart, much bespattered and glistening with wet, had turned a bend in the road and was now approaching the inn at a jog-trot. As George looked at the man tucked up under the hood behind the old white horse, another face peering from between the parcels attracted his attention. A keen glance satisfied him that this belonged to no other person in the world than Mrs. Gray's husband.

He turned indoors and went upstairs swiftly and silently. There was nobody about, and George slipped into his bedroom, holding the door open that he might the better hear any conversation which ensued. He anticipated some lively proceedings.

"Early?" said the landlord. "Yes, the gentleman's out, I think."

"Indeed!" said the voice of Gray. "Perhaps you'll be so good as to make sure that he is out, if you please. It's very important that I should see him now."

"Perhaps I will," said the landlord, "and perhaps I won't." The fact that Gray had not ordered anything, but had only asked for a visitor in a peremptory voice, did not help to recommend him.

"You might give me a whisky," said Gray, in a milder tone, observing his mistake. "Do you think Mr. Early will be long before he comes back?"

The landlord didn't know, but called to the stable-boy and told him to see if Mr. Early was in his bedroom.

"I'll go with him, if you don't mind," said Gray.

George seized his hat as these remarks reached him, and looked about the room. There was no way out, so he promptly crawled under the bed.

Somebody knocked and entered. "Ain't here," said the voice.

"Are you sure this is his room?" said Gray, entering and looking about.

"This is the room all right," said the boy; "'e ain't 'ere." Some words ensued on the landing by Gray endeavouring to make a search of the house, from which he was finally persuaded by the landlady, a portly dame of fifteen stone.

As the departing footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs, George came forth with a smile.

"Find him?" said the landlord downstairs to the boy.

"Ain't there," said the boy.

"Now I come to think of it," said the landlord, who had taken a dislike to Gray, "he went down to the post-office just before you came in. You'll catch him up if you hurry; it's only a couple of miles."

Gray prepared to depart. "If I should miss him," he said, "you can say the gentleman who called came from—from Mrs. Early."

The landlord grunted, and Gray went off, having first satisfied himself that the man he wanted was not lurking about outside.

From his bedroom window George watched until Gray was nearly out of sight, and at once prepared to take advantage of so favourable an opportunity for slipping off. To go down the stairs would mean creating suspicion; he raised the window and looked out; nobody was about He promptly climbed into the sill, dropped into the yard below, and walked round to the front.

"Hallo!" said the landlord, "there's been a man here for you. Come from Mrs. Early, he said."

"Ah!" said George, surprised; "where is he? I must see him at once."

"I told him you went to the post-office," said the landlord; "he was a rough-looking customer, and very disrespectful. I thought he'd come begging, perhaps."

"He's a scoundrel," said George, indignantly; "I expect the lazy brute won't come back. I must go after him at once; how long has he been gone?"

"Quarter of an hour," said the landlord; "I hope I didn't do wrong in——"

"That's all right," said George; "who's trap is that outside?"

"That's my trap, sir," said the landlord. "If you'd like to——"

"I'll borrow it," said George, "and go after him." He ran out, and jumped into the trap. In another minute he was driving off full speed to the station.

"Here, hi!" yelled the landlord, rushing out "He's going the wrong way. That ain't the way to the post-office. Hi! Jim, run after him—quick! Tell him——"

George heard the shouts, but drove straight ahead. He did the three miles in twenty minutes, and reached the station just as a train steamed out. It was a down train, but George would have boarded it promptly if he could have done so; any escape was better than none. He stood on the platform cursing his luck, when a familiar voice fell on his ear. He darted into the waiting-room, and peered through the window. What he saw did not add anything to the joy of his position, rather the reverse. Two men were wrangling with a porter; one was Parrott, the other Busby.

"I'm done now," thought George; "they've got me fairly. They're going to hold me up while that foreign hound gets on to me again."

He looked round the waiting-room, but it offered no escape. There was only one thing to do—to go off in the trap again; and George was about to do it, when a London train rushed into the platform. He hesitated; if he could get across the line, he'd be safe. He waited feverishly for a few minutes, hoping that Busby and Parrott would move, but they did not. The guard's whistle blew.

"Here goes," said George. He picked up a water-bottle, and hurled it at the outside window. A terrific crash followed, and the landlord's pony started off with a mad gallop. Parrott and Busby rushed through the waiting-room into the street. As they did so, George darted across the platform, and jumped down on to the rails. The train was moving away from the opposite side. Grasping a hand-rest, he climbed the nearest carriage, and opened the door.

"Hi! Stand away!" yelled a porter.

"It's Early!" screamed a voice, which George recognized as Busby's.

Safe inside, with the train gathering speed, he leaned out of the window, and waved his cap.

The two men were dancing frantically on the platform.

"Stop him!" roared Parrott; "stop the train!"

But it was too late to follow this advice, and as the train rushed off George beheld his old colleagues gesticulating wildly around a solitary, powerless porter.

The journey started, the young man's thoughts were soon fully occupied. It was evident that the three men were fairly on his track, and had no intention of giving up the chase. If once they caught him they would keep him, and bring Caroli along to settle the third legacy. He could see through it all quite plainly. And, so far, he had not succeeded in finding a plan to properly check them.

George lit a cigarette, and settled himself moodily in the corner as the train pulled up at a station.

Presently the door of his compartment opened, and the guard appeared, accompanied by a porter and the station-master.

"That's the chap," said the guard, pointing at George.

The solitary passenger glared at him in dignified silence.

"Now then, m'lad," said the station-master; "you'll have to get out here."

"I'm going to Victoria, my man," said George, quietly.

"I've got orders to detain you; suspicious character," said the station-master, authoritatively. "You're sure this is the one?"—to the guard.

"That's him," said the guard.

"Look here," said George, darkly, as the station-master got into the carriage; "you'd better be careful what you're doing; I don't want any of you men to get into trouble, so I give you warning."

"He got in at Coddem?" said the station-master, turning to the guard.

"Coddem," said the guard.

"Now, come along," said the station-master, impatiently.

George sat up, and looked him severely in the eye.

"Where's your authority for detaining me?" he asked. "There'll be a row and heavy damages over this."

"It's all right," said the station-master; "I had a wire from Coddem to detain you—suspicious character."

"You've got the wrong man," said George. "Guard, start the train."

The station-master made up his mind quickly, and caught George by the arm.

"Give us a hand here, Joe," he said to the porter.

"Enough." George rose with dignity. "I'll go with you. It'll mean the sack for you all, this affair. Please don't say I didn't warn you."

"Don't you worry about us," said the station-master. "Right away, there!"

"Stop a bit," said the prisoner, pulling out a note-book; "I'll take your number please, Mr. Guard."

The guard smiled pleasantly, and displayed his number, gratuitously offering his name and address, and the age of his grandfather.

"If they should ask you," he said cheerfully, as he swung off in the moving train, "you can say I've been vaccinated."

With much elaboration George entered all particulars in his book, including the porter's number and description, a note of the station-master's whiskers, the time, and other odd things that gave weight to the occasion.

"If you'll promise not to attempt to escape," said the station-master, "you can wait in the booking-office until they come for you."

"No, thank you," said George, stiffly; "this is a criminal affair, and you must take the full consequences of it. It's just as well for you, perhaps, that you do not realize how serious it is."

"My orders are to detain you," said the man, stolidly.

"Where to?" asked the porter, as they halted by the booking-office.

"In the cloak-room," said the station-master. "I've got the guard's word that he's the man."

"There's no getting out of it," said George, as he was thrust into a small room cumbered with dusty trunks and parcels. "I warned you twice!"

With the confidence of official rectitude the station-master gave the door a slam and boldly turned the key.

"Suspicious character that," George heard him say to a passenger.

"Ay," said the other, "looked a smart young chap."

"A dangerous man in my opinion," said the station-master, "but he won't be here long; there's some people coming by the next train to identify him."

"Oh," thought George, "are there? So they've done me, after all." He gave vent to his feelings in a few choice expletives, and listened with dull curiosity to the retreating footsteps of his captors. He looked about him at the odd trunks and parcels, and finally noted that his hurried exit from the Wheatsheaf Inn had not improved his general appearance.

"No brushes here, of course," said George, looking round. "What's this?" He picked up a parcel in two straps with a handle. It proved to be a light dust coat. George used it to rub the mud splashes off his clothes and improve the appearance of his boots. He climbed up and looked through the narrow fanlight. There was not a living soul to be seen.

"I suppose I'm in this infernal place for a couple of hours," he grumbled. "What's that?" He listened; signs of life were evident in a basket by the window. George gave it a sharp tap. A short bark greeted him. "A dog!" He read the label, "Snooks, to be left till called for."

"Sorry for Snooks," said George, pulling out his pocket-knife, "but I must have amusement." He cut the cord, and a small fox terrier bounded out and nearly went into a state of drivelling idiocy in his efforts to show gratitude for release.

"Good boy!" said George, fondling the dog. "Wonder if there's any more here?" He overhauled the parcels. "Hallo!" A faint mew arose from another basket. "This is a feline member; name of Wilkins." He cut the strap and released a black kitten. "Good!" said George, "that's a sign of luck." The cat jumped to the floor, and in two seconds a furious and terrific combat ensued, followed by a wild chase. Over trunks, baskets, bags and parcels went Wilkins' cat, followed madly by Snooks' dog. There was a momentary parley on a hat-box, and the chase continued afresh, ending as suddenly as it began by Wilkins' cat disappearing through the fanlight.

In spite of this disappointment Snooks' dog wagged his tail and looked up gratefully at George for the brief excitement.

"This is going to be a beanfeast, I can see," smiled the captive. "If I can't get out of this place I'll make some trouble for that officious old fool. Suspicious character, he said I was! What's this?—more old clothes?" He pulled a plaid overcoat from under a pile of parcels and examined it. In one of the pockets he found a flask of whisky which he tasted, and promptly abandoned. From that he made a searching investigation of the room, overhauling other people's property without respect to name or rank, and displaying an inquisitive curiosity in the contents of small handbags. A square tin box puzzled him completely. He tapped it, and peered into the small holes on the top.

"There's some mystery here," thought George. "Perhaps it's an infernal machine, put here by one of the station-master's enemies. A man like that is sure to have enemies. I'll open it."

This was easier said than done, but the most obstinate of boxes like the most intricate of locks must give way before the perseverance of man. George exerted all his strength in a supreme effort and pulled. He was successful; the lid flew off with unexpected suddenness, and the contents came out in a shower.

George put down the box and laughed. "Well," he said, "who'd have thought of finding frogs in a cloak-room. Go it, Snooks!"

Snooks' dog needed no urging, but jumped and twirled and barked with astounding rapidity. The frogs with equal mobility spread themselves over the room, and afforded the prisoner amusement for a good quarter of an hour. A small battalion of them found refuge in a large hamper filled with farm produce. George watched this attempt at ambush with great interest.

So far the prisoner's confinement had met with no interruption from without. Stealthy footsteps approached the door once, but on this occasion he contrived to push a handbag through the fanlight and had the satisfaction of knowing that Joe, the porter, received it on his head. A few rude country oaths from Joe were the last sign of life from the platform.

George had not entirely given up hopes of escape, and the sound of footsteps on the platform warning him that the next train was nearly due, he began to take note of his position. If he stayed quietly where he was the pursuers would come up with him, and never leave him until they had accomplished their purpose, which, of course, was obvious. They could easily smooth over the station-master with a five-pound note.

There was no way of escape but by smashing open the door, an almost impossible task; the window was barred, and the ceiling looked too strong for escape by way of the roof. One thing only offered a way out and that was the fire-place, which George examined with interest. It was a fire-place with a very large grate, and an immense fire-guard of closely plaited wire surrounding it. George surveyed it quietly for a few moments, then collected an armful of brown paper and stuffed it in the grate. Having seen that the trap was firmly pulled down to prevent any smoke ascending the chimney, he sat down to await the arrival of the train.

He had not long to wait; in a few minutes he heard the signal bell go, and immediately afterwards the clanging of a hand-bell and the stentorian voice of a porter announcing the London train.

George struck a match quickly, applied it to the paper in the grate, closed the fire-guard to prevent any danger, and crouched down by the door. In less than half a minute a volume of rich smoke ascended to the ceiling and began to pour through the fanlight.

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