She had reached the path that surrounds the Pond before I really got into my stride. In Rugby days I had been counted one of the fastest men in the pack; but even allowing for loss of form due to my recent illness, an amazing fact demanded recognition. Ardatha was outrunning me easily: she ran with the speed of a young antelope!
Then, from nearby, came the expected mournful, cry—”All out!”
I saw the park-keeper at about the same moment that I accepted defeat in the race. Ardatha had passed him like a flash. He had assumed that she was running to reach a Kensington gate before it closed, and had no more than glanced at her speeding figure. For my part I was determined to keep her in sight; but as I ,bore down on the man, some suspicion seemed to cross his mind—a suspicion which linked my appearance with that of the flying girl. He glanced back at her for a moment—and then stood squarely in my path, arms outstretched!
“Not this way!” he cried. “Too late. Porchester Gate is the only way out!”
Porchester Gate was the gate by which I had come in, and for one mad moment I weighed my chances of bowling the man over and following Ardatha. I think, disastrous though such an assault must have been, that I should have risked it had I not sighted a constable heading in our direction.
I pulled up, breathing heavily, and shrugged my shoulders. That lithe figure was already a phantom in the misty distance. Such a cloud of despair succeeded to the wild joy I had known at the sight of Ardatha, such a madness of frustration, that frankly I think I was on the verge of tears. I clenched my teeth and turned back.
“One moment, sir.”
The park-keeper was following me. Struggling as I was for self-control, I prompted myself: “Don’t hit him. He is only doing his duty. She ran away. You have no case. Be tactful or you will spend the night in a lock-up.”
I slowed my pace.
“Yes—what is it?”
He ranged up alongside. Out of the comer of my eye I could see the nearing figure of the constable.
“I was just wondering why you was in such a hurry, like.”
We were walking along together, now, and I forced a smile, looking at the man’s lined, ingenuous face. I decided that he was an old gamekeeper.
“I wanted to catch somebody,” I said. “I had had a quarrel with my girl friend and she ran away from me.”
“Oh, is that so?” He continued to regard me doubtfully. “Run away had she? Young lady with a cape?”
“Yes. She was wearing a cape. I have no idea where she has gone.”
“Oh, I see. Neither of you lives over on Kensington side, like?
“No-neither of us.”
“Oh, I see.” He had accepted me now. “That’s hard luck, sir. She’s a bit high mettled, like, no doubt.”
“She is.”
“Well, them’s sometimes the best, sir, when it comes to a pinch. I reckon when the paddy’s worn out she’ll come back as sweet as honey.”
“I hope so.”
And indeed the man’s simple philosophy had helped to restore me. I was glad that I had not quarrelled with him—and glad that I had told him the truth.
We walked along together through growing dusk. In the shadows about us nothing stirred. Moisture dripped mournfully from the trees. Already, London grew silent at the touch of night. Of Ardatha I dared not think; only I knew that the mystery of her reappearance, and of her flight, belonged to the greater and darker mystery which was Dr. Fu Manchu.
A sense of evil impending, of some unwelcome truth fighting for admission, oppressed me. When I left Kensington Gardens and heard the gate locked behind me, I stood for a while looking across at my windows.
There was a light in the writing-room and the blinds were not drawn. Except for a big Packard just turning the corner into Craven Terrace, there was no nearby traffic. As I ran across, fumbling for my keys, subconsciously I noted the number-plate of the car: BXH 77. It was rememberable, and I was in that troubled mood when one notes trivialities.
Opening the door, I hurried upstairs. I had much to tell Barton—and much to learn from him. The whole current of my life had changed. I remember that I banged my front-door and dashed into the lighted workroom.
Standing by the desk was a tall, thin man, his face tropically brown, his hair nearly white at the temples and his keen eyes fixed upon me. I pulled up suddenly; I could not accept the fact.
It was Nayland Smith!
“Smith—Smith! I was never so glad to see any man in my life!”
He wrung my hand hard, watching me with those questing eyes; but his expression was stem to grimness.
‘“What has become of Barton?” I asked.
Smith seemed to grow rigid. He positively glared at me.
“Barton!” he exclaimed—”Bartoni was Barton here?”
“I left him here.”
He dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
“My God, Kerrigan!” he said; “and you left your front door open—for so I found it. I have been searching London for Barton, and now—”
My fears, sorrows, forebodings, in that instant became crystallized in a dreadful certainty.
“Smith, do you mean—”
“I do, Kerrigan!” He spoke in a low voice. “Fu Manchu is in London . . . and he has got Barton!”
* * *
Smith went racing into the spare bedroom: in broken syllables I had told my tale. At the threshold, as I switched on the lights, we both pulled up.
The room was in wild disorder!”
“You see, Kerrigan, you see!” cried Smith. “It was a ruse to get you out of the house. Poor Barton put up a fight, by heaven! Look at that smashed chair!”
“His bag has gone!”
Smith nodded and began ferreting about among the wreckage. A heavy cloisonne vase lay beside the bed, although its proper place was on me mantel. He examined it carefully, although I could not imagine what evidence he hoped it might afford. Then, I saw something else.
The room was equipped with an old-fashioned open grate, beside which rested tongs and poker. The fire was not laid, for I had not anticipated receiving a guest, but the iron poker lay half under an armchair! Taking it up I uttered an exclamation.
“Smith, look!”
The poker was bent in an unmistakable, significant manner. Smith grabbed it, held it under the bedside lamp—for darkness had fallen—and touched it at several points with the tip of his forefinger. He tossed it on to the bed and began to stare around, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, a mannerism which I knew well.
“Barton is a powerful man,” he said. “Something snapped when that poker was bent! Amazing that no one heard the row.”
“Not at all. The rest of the house is empty, and my daily woman was gone before Barton arrived.”
My voice sounded dull in my ears. Ardatha had lured me away, and my poor friend had been left alone to fight for his life . . . Ardatha—
“There are other curious features, Kerrigan.”
Smith dropped to his knees and began to examine the disordered carpet with close attention. He crawled as far as the door.
“Assuming, as we must, that Fu Manchu’s agents entered shortly after you went out, they had come on very urgent business—”
“Barton’s bag! He told me that it contained something which would have saved you a journey to the Caribbean.”
“Ah!” He stood up. “As I expected. They came for the chart. Barton put up a fight. Now—if they killed him, why carry a heavy body down all those stairs and run the risk of meeting a policeman outside? If he survived, where is he?”
“You say the street door was open?”
“Yes. Quick, Kerrigan! Let us examine the stairs. But wait—first, all the cupboards and other possible hiding places.”
Outside, in Bayswater Road, I heard a bus go by. I imagined it to be laden with home-bound City workers anxious to reach their firesides. The black tragedy of war oppressed them, yet, not one, in passing, would suspect that within sight from the bus windows, two of their fellows faced a terror deeper than that of the known enemy.