They reached the bottom of the hill, and Teal was the first to see the police car standing by the road where they had left it. He pointed it out as Perry applied the brakes.
"He can't have come this way, either," Teal said. "If he had, he'd have taken that car."
"I wonder if he saw it," said the Saint.
He dropped off into the road, and his flashlight Spilled a circle of luminance over the macadam. The circle moved about restlessly, and Teal stepped from the car and followed it.
"Looking for footprints?" inquired the detective sardonically, as he came up behind the Saint; and at that moment the light in the Saint's hand went out.
"Blood," said the Saint, very quietly.
"That's a nasty word," murmured Teal.
"You everlasting mutt!" Simon gripped his arm fiercely. "I wasn't swearing. I was telling you something!" He turned. "Nigel, turn those, headlights out!"
The detective was fumbling with a matchbox; but the Saint stopped him,
"It's all right, old dear," he drawled. "This gadget of yours is till working. I just thought we'd better go carefully. Hallin's been past here. He didn't take the car, so he can't have had much farther to go."
"But what's this about blood? Did you use a knife?"
"No," said the Saint, smiling in the darkness. "I hit him on the nose."
Moyna Stanford had been awake for a long time.
She had roused sickly from a deeper sleep than any she had ever known; and it had been more than half an hour before she could recall anything coherently, or even find the strength to move.
And when her memory returned--or, rather, when she had forced it to return--she was not much wiser. She remembered meeting Miles Hallin at Windsor station. He had insisted on driving her back to London, and she had been glad to accept the invitation. In Slough he had complained of an intolerable thirst; they had stopped at a hotel, and she had been persuaded to join him in an early cup of tea. Then they had returned to the car. . . .
She did not know how long she had slept.
When she awoke, she was in darkness. She lay on something soft, and, when she could move, she gathered that it was a bed. She had already discovered that her wrists and ankles were securely bound....
Presently she had learned one or two other things. That it was night, for instance, she learned when she rolled over and saw a square of starlight in one wall; but her hands were tied behind her back, and she could not see her wrist watch to find out what hour of the night it might be. Then she lay still, listening, but not the faintest sound broke the silence. The house was like a tomb.
She had no idea how long she lay there. She did not cry out--there would be no one to hear. And she could see no help in screaming. Later, the sound of a car passing close by told her that she was not far from a road--a country road, or there would have been more cars. There was never such a silence in London. Later still--it was impossible to keep track of time--she scrambled off the bed and hobbled slowly and laboriously to the window. It was very dark outside; she could see nothing but a black expanse of country, in which no particular features were distinguishable, except that the" horizon was ragged against the dimness of the sky, as if it were formed by a line of hills. She might have been anywhere in England. The window was open, and she stood beside it for a long while, wondering if another car would pass, and if the road would be near enough for anyone in the car to hear her if she called; but no other car came. After a time she struggled back to the bed and lay down again; it was difficult and wearying for her to stand with her feet tightly lashed together, and her head was swimming all the while.
Then the drug she had been given must have put forth one final kick before it was finished with her; for she awoke again with a start, though she had no recollection of falling asleep. The sky through the window looked exactly the same: she was sure that she had only dozed.
She was shivering---she did not know why. Strangely enough, when she had first awoken she had been aware of no fear; that part of her brain seemed to have stayed sunken in sleep. But now she found herself trembling. There was a tightness about her chest; and she waited, tense with a name-less terror, hardly breathing, certain that some distinct sound had roused her.
Then the sound was repeated; and she would have cried out then, but her throat seemed paralyzed.
Someone was coming up the stairs.
A faint light entered the room. It came from under the door and traced a slow arc around half the floor. The creak of another board outside sent an icy qualm prickling up her spine; her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded thunderously. . , . The next thing would be the opening of the door. She waited for that, too, in the same awful tenseness: it was like watching a card castle after a sudden draught has caught it; she knew what must come, it was inevitable, but the suspense was more hideous than the active peril. . . . The rattle of a key in the lock made her jump, as if she had been held motionless by 'a slender thread and the thread had been snapped by the sound, . . .
Involuntarily she closed her eyes. When she opened them again Miles Hallin was relocking the door on the inside, and the bare room was bright with the lamp that he carried.
Then he turned, putting the lamp down on a rough wooden chair, and she saw him properly. She was amazed and aghast at his appearance. His clothes were torn and shapeless and filthy; his collar had burst open, and his tie was halfway down his chest; his hair was dishevelled; his face was smeared and stained with blood.
"Are you awake?" he said.
She could not answer. He advanced slowly to the bed, peering at her.
"You are awake. I've come back. You ought to be glad to see me, I've nearly been killed."
He sat down and put his head in his hands for a moment. Then he looked at her again.
"Killed!" His voice was rough and shaky. "One of your friends tried to kill me. That man Templar'. I nearly killed him, though. I'd have done it if I'd been alone. We were on the precipice. There's a two-hundred-foot drop. Can you imagine it? You'd go down--and down--and down--down to the bottom--and break like a rotten apple--Ugh!" He shuddered uncontrollably. "It was terrible. Have you ever thought about death, Moyna? I think it must be dreadful to die. I don't want to die!"
His hand plucked at her sleeve, and she stared at him, fascinated. His quivering terror was more horrible than anything she had ever imagined.
"I can't die!" he babbled. "Don't you know that? It's in all the newspapers. Miles Hallin--The Man Who Cannot Die! I'm big, strong--Templar couldn't kill me, and he's strong--I can't--go down --and lie still and--and get cold--and never move any more. And you rot. All your flesh--rots. ... In the desert, I thought about it, D'you hear about Nigel's brother? We tossed for who was to die, and he won. And he didn't seem to mind dying. I pretended I didn't mind, either. And I walked with him a long way. And then---I hit him when he wasn't looking. I took the water--and left him. He --he died, Moyna. In the sun. And--shrivelled up. He's been dead--years. Sometimes I can see him...."
The girl moistened her lips. She could not move.
"Ever since then I've been dead, too. I've never been alive. You see, I couldn't tell anyone. Acting-- all the time. So--I've always been alone. Never been able to tell anyone--never been with anyone who knew all about it--who--who was frightened, like I was. Until I met you. I knew you'd understand. You could share the secret. I was going-- to tell you. And then Templar found out. I don't know how. Or he guessed. He sees everything--his eyes--I knew he'd try to take you away from me. So I brought you here. I'm going to---live. With you. He won't find us here. I bought this place for you--long ago. It's beautiful. I don't think anyone's ever died here. Moyna! Moyna! Moyna!"