XXXVI

That afternoon he had a visitor. He was, apparently, a gentleman who was anxious to rent a garage, and he made one or two inquiries in the mews before he called at Digby Groat’s temporary home. Those people who troubled to observe him, noticed that he stayed a considerable time within this garage, and when he came out he seemed satisfied with his negotiations. He was in truth Villa, who had come in answer to an urgent wire.

“Well,” said Digby, “is everything ready?”

“Everything is ready, dear friend,” said Villa amiably. “I have the three men you want. Bronson is one, Fuentes and Silva are the others; they are known to you?”

Digby nodded. Bronson was an army aviator who had left the service under a cloud. Digby had employed him once before, to carry him to Paris⁠—Bronson ran a passenger carrying service which Digby had financed. The other two he knew as associates of Villa⁠—Villa had queer friends.

“Bronson will be in a field just outside Rugby. I told him to pretend he had made a false landing.”

“Good,” said Digby. “Now you understand that I shall be travelling north in the disguise of an old woman. A car must be waiting a mile short of the station and Fuentes must reach the line with a red hand-lamp and signal the train to stop. When it stops he can clear and by that time I shall be well away. I know Rugby well and this sketch-map will tell you everything.” He handed a sheet of paper to Villa. “The car must be waiting at the end of the lane marked ‘B’ on the plan⁠—the house⁠—is it in good condition?”

“There’s a house on the property,” said Villa, “but it is rather a tumbledown affair.”

“It can’t be worse than Kennett Hall,” said Digby. “That will do splendidly. You can keep the girl there all night and bring her to Kennett Hall in the morning. I will be there to receive you. Tomorrow afternoon, just before sundown, we will take our final flight to the sea.”

“What about Bronson?”

“Bronson will have to be settled with,” said Digby, “but you can leave that to me.”

He had his own views about Bronson which it was not expedient at the moment to discuss.

“How are you going to get to the Hall?” asked the interested Villa.

“You can leave that to me also,” said Digby with a frown. “Why are you so curious? I will tell you this much, that I intend taking on the car and travelling through the night.”

“Why not take the girl by the car?” demanded the persistent Villa.

“Because I want her to arrive at Kennett Hall by the only way that is safe. If the Hall is being watched, there is a chance of getting away again before they close in on us. No, I will be there before daybreak, and make a reconnaissance. In a case like this, I can trust nobody but myself, and what is more, Villa, I know the people who are watching me. Now, do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my friend,” said Villa jovially; “as to that little matter of sharing out⁠—”

“The money is here,” said Digby, tapping his waist, “and you will have no cause to complain. There is much to be done yet⁠—we have not seen the worst of our adventures.”

For Eunice Weldon the worst was, for the moment, a splitting headache which made it an agony to lift her head from the pillow. She seemed to have passed through the day in a condition which was neither wakefulness nor sleep. She tried to remember what had happened and where she was, but the effort was so painful that she was content to lie with her throbbing head, glad that she was left alone. Several times the thought of Digby Groat came through her mind, but she was so inexplicably confused with Jim Steele that she could not separate the two personalities.

Where she was she neither knew nor cared. She was lying down and she was quiet⁠—that satisfied her. Once she was conscious of a sharp stinging sensation in her right arm, and soon after she must have gone to sleep again, only to wake with her head racked with shooting pains as though somebody was driving red-hot nails into her brain.

At last it became so unendurable that she groaned, and a voice near her⁠—an anxious voice, she thought⁠—said:

“Have you any pain?”

“My head,” she murmured. “It is dreadful!”

She was conscious of a “tut” of impatience, and almost immediately afterwards somebody’s arm was round her neck and a glass was held to her lips.

“Drink this,” said the voice.

She swallowed a bitter draught and made a grimace of distaste.

“That was nasty,” she said.

“Don’t talk,” said the voice. Digby was seriously alarmed at the condition in which he found her when he had returned from a visit of reconnaissance. Her colour was bad, her breathing difficult and her pulse almost imperceptible. He had feared this, and yet he must continue his “treatment.”

He looked down at her frowningly and felt some satisfaction when he saw the colour creep back to the wax-like face, and felt the throb of the pulse under his fingers.

As to Eunice, the sudden release from pain which came almost immediately after she had taken the draught, was so heavenly that she would have been on her knees in gratitude to the man who had accomplished the miracle, and with relief from pain came sleep.

Digby heaved a sigh of relief and went back to his work. It was very pleasant work for him, for the table was covered with little packages of five thousand dollar gold bills, for he had been successful in drawing the funds of the Thirteen and exchanging them for American money. He did not want to find himself in Brazil with a wad of English notes which he could not change because the numbers had been notified.

His work finished, he strapped the belt about his waist and proceeded leisurely to prepare for the journey. A grey wig changed the appearance of his face, but he was not relying upon that disguise. Locking the door, he stripped himself of his clothes and began to dress deliberately and carefully.

It was nearly eight o’clock that night when Eunice returned to consciousness. Beyond an unquenchable thirst, she felt no distress. The room was dimly illuminated by a small oil-lamp that stood on the washstand, and the first thing that attracted her eye, after she had drunk long and eagerly from the glass of water that stood on the table by the side of the bed, was a beautiful evening dress of silver tissue which hung over the back of the chair. Then she saw pinned to the side of the pillow a card. It was not exactly the same shade of grey that Digby and she had received in the early stages of their acquaintance. Digby had failed to find the right colour in his search at the local stationers, but he had very carefully imitated the pen-print with which the mysterious woman in black had communicated her warnings, and the girl reading at first without understanding and then with a wildly beating heart, the message of the card saw her safely assured.

“Dress in the clothes you will find here, and if you obey me without question I will save you from an ignominious fate. I will call for you but you must not speak to me. We are going to the north in order to escape Digby Groat.”

The message was signed with a rough drawing of the Blue Hand.

She was trembling in every limb, for now the events of the past few days were slowly looming through the fog with which the drugs had clouded her brain. She was in the power of Digby Groat, and the mysterious woman in black was coming to her rescue. It did not seem possible. She stood up and almost collapsed, for her head was humming and her knees seemed incapable of sustaining her weight. She held on to the head of the bedstead for several minutes before she dared begin to dress.

She forgot her raging thirst, almost forgot her weakness, as with trembling hands she fastened the beautiful dress about her and slipped on the silk stockings and satin shoes. Why did the mysterious woman in black choose this conspicuous dress, she wondered, if she feared that Digby Groat would be watching for her? She could not think consecutively. She must trust her rescuer blindly, she thought. She did her hair before the tiny mirror and was shocked to see her face. About her eyes were great dark circles; she had the appearance of one who was in a wasting sickness.

“I’m glad Jim can’t see you, Eunice Weldon,” she said, and the thought of Jim acted as a tonic and a spur.

Her man! How she had hurt him. She stopped suddenly in the act of brushing her hair. She remembered their last interview. Jim said she was the daughter of Lady Mary Danton! It couldn’t be true, and yet Jim had said it, and that gave it authority beyond question. She stared at her reflection, and then the effort of thought made her head whirl again and she sat down.

“I mustn’t think, I mustn’t think,” she muttered, and yet thoughts and doubts, questions and speculations, crowded in upon her. Lady Mary Danton was her mother! She was the woman who had come into Jim’s flat. There was a tap at the door and she started. Was it Digby Groat? Digby who had brought her here?

“Come in,” she said faintly.

The door opened but the visitor did not enter, and she saw, standing on the little landing, a woman in black, heavily veiled, who beckoned to her to follow. She rose unsteadily and moved towards her.

“Where are we going?” she asked, and then, “Thank you, thank you a thousand times, for all you are doing for me!”

The woman made no reply, but walked down the stairs, and Eunice went after her.

It was a dark night; rain was falling heavily and the mews was deserted except for the taxicab which was drawn up at the door. The woman opened the door of the cab and followed Eunice into its dark interior.

“You must not ask questions,” she whispered. “There is a hood to your coat. Pull it over your head.”

What did it mean? Eunice wondered.

She was safe, but why were they going out of London? Perhaps Jim awaited her at the end of the journey and the danger was greater than she had imagined. Whither had Digby Groat gone, and how had this mysterious woman in black got him out of the way? She put her hand to her head. She must wait. She must have patience. All would be revealed to her in good time⁠—and she would see Jim!

The two people who were interested in the departure of the eleven-forty-five train for the north, did not think it was unusual to see a girl in evening dress, accompanied by a woman in mourning, take their places in a reserved compartment. It was a train very popular with those visitors to London who wanted to see a theatre before they left, and the detective who was watching on the departure platform, scrutinizing every man who was accompanied by a woman, gave no attention to the girl in evening dress and, as they thought, her mother. Perhaps if she had not been so attired, they might have looked more closely⁠—Digby Groat was a great student of human nature.

Lady Mary, in her restlessness, had come to Euston to supplement the watch of the detectives, and had passed every carriage and its occupants under review just before Eunice had taken her seat.

“Sit in the corner,” whispered the “woman,” “and do not look at the platform. I am afraid Groat will be on the lookout for me.”

The girl obeyed and Lady Mary, walking back, seeing the young girl in evening dress, whose face was hidden from her, never dreamt of making any closer inspection. The detective strolled along the platform with her towards the entrance.

“I am afraid there will be no more trains tonight, my lady,” said the bearded officer, and she nodded. “I should think they’ve left by motorcar.”

“Every road is watched now,” said Lady Mary quietly, “and it is impossible for them to get out of London by road.”

At the moment the train, with a shrill whistle, began to move slowly out of the station.

“May I look now?” said Eunice, and the “woman” in black nodded.

Eunice turned her head to the platform and then with a cry, started up.

“Why, why,” she cried wildly, “there is Mrs. Fane⁠—Lady Mary, my mother!”

Another instant, and she was dragged back to her seat, and a hateful voice hissed in her ear:

“Sit down!”

The “woman” in black snapped down the blind and raised “her” veil.

But Eunice knew that it was Digby Groat before she saw the yellow face of the man.