He was trussed like a fowl, his hands were so tightly corded together that he could not move them, and his ankles roped so that it was next to impossible to lever himself to his feet.
“What a life!” said Jim philosophically, and prepared himself for a long, long wait.
He did not doubt that Digby would leave immediately, and Jim faced the prospect of being left alone in the house, to make his escape or die. He was fully determined not to die, and already his busy mind had evolved a plan which he would put into execution as soon as he knew he was not under observation.
But Digby remained in the house, as he was to learn.
An hour passed, and then the door was snapped open and Digby came in, followed by a man at the sight of whom Jim grinned. It was Bronson, looking ludicrous in Jim’s clothes, which were two sizes too large for him.
“They discovered you, did they, Bronson!” he chuckled. “Well, here am I as you were, and presently somebody will discover me, and then I shall be calling on you in Dartmoor, some time this year, to see how you are going along. Nice place Dartmoor, and the best part of the prison is Block B.—central heating, gas, hot water laid on, and every modern convenience except tennis—”
“Where is Villa?” asked Digby.
“I don’t know for a fact,” said Jim pleasantly, “but I can guess.”
“Where is he?” roared Bronson, his face purple with rage.
Jim smiled, and in another minute the man’s open hand had struck him across the face, but still Jim smiled, though there was something in his eyes that made Bronson quail.
“Now, Steele, there’s no sense in your refusing to answer,” said Digby. “We want to know what you have done with Villa. Where is he?”
“In hell,” said Jim calmly. “I’m not a whale on theology, Groat, but if men are punished according to their deserts, then undoubtedly your jovial pal is in the place where the bad men go and there is little or no flying.”
“Do you mean that he is dead?” asked Digby, livid.
“I should think he is,” said Jim carefully. “We were over five thousand feet when I looped the loop from sheer happiness at finding myself once again with a joy-stick in my hand, and I don’t think your friend Villa had taken certain elementary precautions. At any rate, when I looked round, where was Villa? He was flying through the air on his own, Groat, and my experience is that when a man starts flying without his machine, the possibility of making a good landing is fairly remote.”
“You killed him,” said Bronson between his teeth, “damn you!”
“Shut up,” snapped Digby. “We know what we want to know. Where did you throw him out?”
“Somewhere around,” said Jim carelessly. “I chose a deserted spot. I should have hated it if he had hurt anybody when he fell.”
Digby went out of the room without a word, and locked the door behind him, and did not speak until he was back in the room where he had left Villa less than a week before. He shuddered as he thought of the man’s dreadful end.
The two Spaniards were there, and they had business which could not be postponed. Digby had hoped they would rely on his promise and wait until he had readied a place of safety before they insisted on a share-out, but they were not inclined to place too high a value upon their chief’s word. Their share was a large one, and Digby hated the thought of paying them off, but it had to be done. He had still a considerable fortune. No share had gone to the other members of the gang.
“What are your plans?” asked Xavier Silva.
“I’m going to Canada,” replied Digby. “You may watch the agony columns of the newspapers for my address.”
The Spaniard grinned.
“I shall be watching for something more interesting,” he said, “for my friend and I are returning to Spain. And Bronson, does he go with you?”
Digby nodded.
It was necessary, now that Villa had gone, to take the airman into his confidence. He had intended leaving his shadow in the lurch, a fact which Bronson did not suspect. He sent the two men into the grounds to give the machine an examination, and Jim, sitting in his room, heard the noise of the engine and struggled desperately to free his hands. If he could only get up to his feet! All his efforts must be concentrated upon that attempt.
Presently the noise ceased; Xavier Silva was a clever mechanic, and he had detected that something was wrong with one of the cylinders.
“Tuning up!” murmured Jim.
So he had more time than he had hoped for.
He heard a step on the stone terrace, and through the window caught a glimpse of Bronson passing. Digby had sent the man into the village to make judicious inquiries as to Villa’s fate.
Curiously enough, the three men who had watched the approaching aeroplane from the terrace of Kennett Hall had been unconscious of Villa’s doom, although they were witnesses of the act. They had seen the loop in the sky and Digby had thought no more than that Bronson was showing off to the girl, and had cursed him roundly for his folly. Villa’s body must be near at hand. How near, Bronson was to discover at the village inn.
After the man had left, Digby went to look at his second prisoner, and found her walking up and down the room into which she had been put for safety.
“Did you like your aeroplane journey, Eunice?” he asked blandly.
She did not reply.
“Rather thrilling and exciting, wasn’t it? And were you a witness to the murder of my friend Villa?”
She looked up at him.
“I don’t remember that your friend Villa was murdered,” she said, ready to defend Jim of any charge that this man might trump up against him.
He read her thoughts.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Steele,” he said dryly. “I am not charging him with murder. In fact, I have no time. I am leaving tomorrow night as soon as it is dark, and you are coming with me by aeroplane.”
She did not answer this.
“I am hoping that you won’t mind a brief immersion in the sea,” he said. “I cannot guarantee that we can land on my yacht.”
She turned round. On his yacht! That, then, was the plan. She was to be carried off to a yacht, and the yacht was to take her—where?
There was a clatter of feet in the outer room and he opened the door. One glance at Bronson’s face told him that he had important news.
“Well?” he asked sharply.
“They’ve found Villa’s body. I saw a reporter at the inn,” said the man breathlessly.
“Do they know who it is?” asked Digby, and Bronson nodded.
“What?” asked Digby, startled. “They know his name is Villa?”
Again the man nodded.
“They found a paper in his pocket, a receipt for the sale of a yacht,” he said, and through the open doorway Eunice saw the man shrink back.
“Then they know about the yacht?”
The news confounded him and shook him from his calm. If the police knew about the yacht his difficulties became all but insuperable, and the danger which threatened him loomed up like a monstrous overwhelming shape. Digby Groat was not built to meet such stunning emergencies and he went all to pieces under the shock.
Eunice, watching him through the open door, saw his pitiable collapse. In a second he had changed from the cool, self-possessed man who had sneered at danger into a babbling fretful child who cursed and wrung his hands, issuing incoherent orders only to countermand them before his messenger had left the room.
“Kill Steele!” he screamed. “Kill him, Bronson. Damn him—no, no, stay! Get the machine ready… we leave tonight.”
He turned to the girl, glaring at her.
“We leave tonight, Eunice! Tonight you and I will settle accounts!”