by Guy Thorne
Chapter 11
"So we meet again, Peter Fanshawe!" The words rang out in the quiet hotel sitting room, and the revolver was levelled straight at the heart of the clean-shaven man who had entered it as Conway Flint.
Boynton was at one end of the table, the man he called Peter Fanshawe at the other. Winterbotham crouched in his chair by the fire. The room was now brilliantly lit, and the little man stared in absolute stillness at the dramatic tableau before him. For a moment his throat went dry and his eyes burned. He was not a superstitious man, but how could a man rise from the dead? Had he not seen Peter Fanshawe swirling in the dark night currents of the Mersey, a corpse? Had he not been present at the inquest in Liverpool? But as he looked he saw that Boynton's instant recognition was not a mistake. It was Peter Fanshawe who stood there, livid-white, like the under side of a sole -- Peter Fanshawe, with his beard and moustache removed, but nevertheless the man himself. The horror-stricken eyes, the hideous rigidity of terror at Boynton's accusing words were evidence in themselves.
The man choked, gulped, stammered and then spoke. "You! What are you doing here, Boynton?"
"You know me, I see," Gerald answered in an icy voice. "You ask me what I am doing here. I am on your track and that of your master, and have been from the first. Do you think that all you did in the Experiment House at the works escaped my notice? I watched you night by night. I know all about the Mabinogion's secret visits to the wharf. I know what you made with such secrecy and what was afterwards conveyed to Castle Ynad."
The wretched man at the head of the table seemed to sink in upon himself and become perceptibly smaller. "You!" he whispered again, and his face went from white to red and then to white once more, and beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead. He tore with one hand at his waistcoat as if something swelled and choked him and stopped the passage of his breath.
"You expected to see some ordinary person who would not know you for what you are. You came to offer your master's lying condolences. Where is she? Answer me that."
"She? The girl?"
"Quick, or I'll fire. It will be a real death this time, Peter Fanshawe."
"The girl -- she is in the castle. Who -- what have you to do with her?"
In an instant Gerald perceived that Fanshawe was unaware of Violet's identity. He was debating whether to enlighten him when Fanshawe dropped with incredible swiftness to the floor. He passed out of sight like a falling stone, and with a single diving movement was under the long dining table. There was a scuffling sound and then the audible click of a revolver being cocked.
If Fanshawe was quick, Gerald was ready too. He leapt onto the table with a single movement. He had only done so when his eyes fell upon Winterbotham. The little man, still crouching in his chair, had something dark grey and oblong in his hand. At one end there was something that glittered. It was a little brass tap.
There was a faint pop, like the sound of a soda-water cork heard at some distance away, a sudden angry hiss, a limp thud beneath the table. Winterbotham rose from his chair and placed the grey object upon the mantelshelf.
"That's done for him, Mister Boynton, I think," he said with a chuckle. "Your gas cylinder which you made up for the dogs. Came in very handy, didn't it? Lucky I had it in my pocket."
They pulled the limp form from under the table by the legs. The mouth was open, the nostrils curiously distended and all the muscles rigid in an instantaneous paralysis.
"Just one little whiff," Winterbotham chuckled. "Got him straight in the face."
"Thank God!" Boynton answered. "We've got him now. He will be like this for two or three hours, unless we bring him to. It is astounding, Winterbotham. We've got to think it over and find out what it all means. One thing we do know, and that is Miss Milton is at the castle. But we've got to know much more than that -- and here is the one man that can tell us."
"What are we to do with him, sir?
Boynton thought for a moment. "Miss Milton's room is empty," he said. "No one will go there. It's a desecration, but we must put this fellow in it. I believe it's the first door on the right in the corridor."
He went to the door of the sitting room, opened it quietly and listened. The electric light burned on the corridor landing. There was nobody about and not a sound. Together the two men caught the limp body by the arms and legs and carried it into the empty bedroom. Winterbotham went first, and as he got inside the door he felt a sudden tug, as if Boynton were reluctant to enter, but as he was not overburdened with the refinements of sentiment himself he tugged strongly in return and in a second Fanshawe was laid on the bed.
They locked the door and held a whispered conference. "For some reason or other, which I can't explain at present, Fanshawe is known to everyone here as Conway Flint, Lord Llandrylas' agent. He is perfectly well known. He has been seen to come here. We must let the people of the hotel believe he has gone."
"But how, Mr. Boynton?"
"He was shown up by the general staircase, but there is no reason why I should not have shown him out by the private stairs leading to the garden gate. We'll both go down together and lock the door here. I'll talk in a loud voice as I see you to the door. It is quite dark outside, but the garden path goes by the windows of the bar and smoking-room, which are sure to be open. Mr. or Mrs. Price will be in one or the other of the rooms; and at any rate, the barmaid will be there. You'll go tramping off in the night and then a minute or two afterwards stroll into the hotel by the front door with your pipe in your hand, as if you had just been out for a smoke. I think that ought to do the trick."
They walked loudly down the stairs, Gerald talking the whole time and his companion making an answering murmur. It was touch and go, but there were no visitors in the hotel and their luck held.
"Good night, Mr. Flint, and thank Lord Llandrylas very much for his offer of help," Gerald shouted, as Winterbotham tramped away into the darkness.
A minute afterwards Gerald was standing by the bed upon which the unconscious Fanshawe lay. The young man looked around him with a feeling of awe. It was as though he was in some shrine, and all his heart went out to the girl he loved. He permitted himself a few brief seconds of emotion. His grief and horror, which had stood back in the excitement of his arrival and the discovery of Fanshawe, threatened to overwhelm him in a flood. The anguish was terrible, but mingled with it was a white, fierce anger which was like a devastating flame. He cursed the man upon the bed, and far more he cursed the sinister ruler of the mountain -- but not for long. Essentially a man of action, he knew that there was not an instant to be lost in private anguish. He must think and think quickly, bending the whole power of his mind upon the immediate present.
First of all, Fanshawe. He felt the man's pulse. It was beating steadily. Boynton knew the effects of the gas very well. He gazed at the face. The cranial development was magnificent -- and none knew better than he what a splendid but perverted brain was there enshrined. But the mouth, with the firm white teeth, was weak and sensual. He saw it now for the first time in its fullness, and he marked how small and even receding was the chin, which had hitherto been hidden by the beard. A thought struck him as Winterbotham came into the room.
"I'll go down and order some hot coffee and one or two other things I want," he said to Winterbotham. "Then we will bring this man back to consciousness and find out all he knows."
Leaving Winterbotham in charge, Boynton went down the stairs and into the lounge bar, where he ordered hot coffee to be taken to the sitting room at once. Mr. Price was there, pale and agitated.
"No news yet, sir; but we shall have some soon, I'll be bound. Don't you lose heart."
"Thank you, Mr. Price," Gerald answered. "But this suspense is very hard to bear. Mr. Conway Flint has just gone and he tells me that Lord Llandrylas is doing everything he can. That cheered me somewhat."
"Best news yet," replied the landlord. "I heard Mr. Flint go just now. Nice gentleman, isn't he? Did you know him before?"
"I once had him
pointed out to me at Liverpool, Mr. Price, but as far as I can remember he wore a beard then. Wasn't that so?"
"Quite right, sir. Mr. Flint was clean-shaven for several years. About six months ago, however, he grew a beard and moustache, and now I see he has shaven them off again. I suppose he likes the first way better."
Gerald went to the sitting room and waited for the hot coffee. When it came he took it to the bedroom. He was beginning to see a little daylight. The man they had found in the river was not Fanshawe; it was Conway Flint, who, for some reason or other, much resembled the ex-director. Again, when the body was finally recovered, its appearance was naturally much altered, which was an additional safeguard to those in the dark plot. Dark it was, for it involved nothing less than murder, and murder at which the Earl of Llandrylas must have connived for his own sinister purpose.
It took twenty minutes or more to bring Fanshawe to himself. As consciousness returned and he lay pale and gasping on the bed, a look of horrible anxiety came into his eyes. His lower lip trembled, and he gulped and stammered unintelligible sounds before he spoke.
"Where am I?" he began in a dry whisper, and then louder and with an appalling note of anxiety in his voice. "The time! For God's sake, what is the time?"
Boynton took out his watch. It was not much after seven. The terrible urgency of the request meant something, and he watched Fanshawe carefully as he told him the hour.
A great groan of relief came from their prisoner. "Thank God! Thank God!" The words seemed a profanation on those lips. "Thank God, it's not too late!"
"As you are well enough to talk, Mr. Fanshawe," Boynton said quietly, "and as you can see your legs and arms are tied, you can't move, I am going to ask you a few questions. Remember that you are absolutely in my power. If you call out or try to attract attention in any way, Winterbotham here will gas you as he did when you were under the table in the sitting room. Just keep the cylinder ready, Winterbotham. Thank you."
Fanshawe snarled like a clog at bay. "I will answer none of your questions. You will suffer for this dearly."
"I think I'll find means to persuade you," Gerald went on. "If I fail, I'll deliver you up to the police."
"You cannot do anything of the sort. I have done nothing."
"The whole of your actions in regard to your doings at the works will have to be investigated. You will have to explain who the man was whose body was found in the river, and why you changed places with him. The dullest country policeman would detain you on such evidence as Winterbotham and myself have to offer. Then your little transactions with Lord Llandrylas will all have to come out. Need I say any more to a man of your intelligence?"
There was a slight silence. Fanshawe appeared to be thinking deeply. Gerald watched the thoughts pass over his face like waves of heat pass over red-hot iron. The big brain was at work, cunning and resolute to the last. And yet, the young man thought as he waited, the face was not wholly bad. Fanshawe was a scoundrel and a criminal, no doubt, but there had been many that had called him friend in the old days.
"You call me a man of intelligence," Fanshawe said at last. "From your last remarks I can hardly pay you the same compliment. You may not be aware that I wrote to Miss Milton stating that I was going to America and resigning my post as director of the works. Nothing has altered that fact. I am going to America this very night, and how I go, or where the world believes me, it does not matter in the least to you. I am going to leave this country tonight, as I've just remarked, and you cannot detain me."
"That remains to be seen, Fanshawe. May I inquire how you propose to leave for America this evening?"
"I see no harm in telling you. Lord Llandrylas has put his yacht, the Mabinogion, at my disposal and that of my friend, who is journeying with me."
A lightning flash of illumination came into Gerald's mind. He made a long shot -- and hit the mark. "Mr. Sachs, I suppose?" he said quietly.
Fear came back into Fanshawe's eyes. "You know too much," he said with dry lips.
"On the contrary, there are many things I wish to know, and which you are going to tell me. Let me reiterate that you won't sail tonight unless my questions are answered, despite the fact that your work and that of Mr. Sachs appears to be complete."
Fanshawe's whole expression and manner changed. The terrible anxiety returned, but there was hope in it too. "If I answer your questions will you let me go?" he said, entirely abandoning his former attitude and almost fawning on the stern-faced young man who stood by the bed.
Gerald waited for nearly half a minute before he replied. He was weighing the pros and cons of the situation. After all, the first thing was to rescue Violet; the second to discover the truth and punish Lord Llandrylas. This man, lying so helpless before him, was, after all, a tool, a minor rogue.
"Yes, Fanshawe, I will let you go if you answer my questions. But you must hold no communication with Castle Ynad when you leave this hotel before you sail. I must see you leave Pendrylas Harbour myself."
Fanshawe gave a great sigh of relief. "We sail with the tide at half-past nine," he said. "My luggage is already on board. I only came here to deliver the earl's message to the lost girl's mother. It was the last thing he asked me to do for him before we said goodbye. Boynton, may I have something to drink? I feel deadly sick and ill from your infernal poison." He turned his head a little and glared at Winterbotham. "I sacked you once, my man, and from what I see now I was quite right. Respectable overseers don't go about carrying cylinders of poison gas."
"Mister Fanshawe," said Winterbotham, quite unmoved, "I'll go and get you a sup o' drink."
Some brandy was brought and Fanshawe drank eagerly, a little colour coming back to his cheeks.
"Winterbotham can hear all I have to say," Gerald Boynton said. "He has been with me in this matter from the first. Why has Lord Llandrylas kidnapped Miss Milton? Where has he put her? And is she safe and unharmed?"
The springs of the bed creaked and rattled. Bound as he was, Fanshawe had jumped like a fish in a basket. "Miss Milton!" he cried. "That charming girl! What has she got to do with this matter?"
"She is the young lady for whom all the countryside is searching and who, by your own admission, is being detained by Lord Llandrylas. This fact, I might tell you, I was pretty well certain about before. It only needed your corroboration."
"Miss Milton!" the other said again, and there was no doubt of the genuineness of his surprise.
"Yes, she has been with us on the quest the whole time. I may tell you that we are engaged to be married."
Fanshawe flushed. "By Jove! Boynton," he said. "I wish you all the luck in the world. You deserve it too. I wish I had run as straight as you and I wouldn't be where I am now. You haven't wasted much time, I must say! Now I'll tell you all I know."
Fanshawe hesitated for a moment, knitting his brows as if in deep recollection, and both of the watchers could see there was no pretence or falseness about him now.
"I have been at the castle finishing a certain piece of work," he said. "I knew that a girl had been found upon the moor. I have not seen her, but she was brought into the castle by Lord Llandrylas' orders. His retainers there will obey his slightest wish or command. He exercises a sort of hypnotic influence over them. They worship him as if he were superhuman."
"And what has happened to her?
"As far as I know, she has been treated very well. She has been lodged in one of the rooms of the central keep. She has a woman to look after her. Llandrylas has got it into his head that she is his destined bride. I suppose you know that the man, with all his brilliancy and power, is half cracked at times? He is not the man to harm her. But Miss Milton! It is terrible!"
His voice suddenly dropped into a startled whisper. "My God, yes!" he said. "I would have given anything if this had not happened. I thought it was some girl from the countryside. indeed, I hardly gave the matter a thought; but now..."
Gerald's brain was unnaturally acute. "Fanshawe," he said in a kinder voice than be
fore, "I thank you for telling me this. I don't know what you have done and I'm not going to judge you. But there is something underneath all this. When you came back to consciousness you wished to know the time with such earnestness that my suspicions were aroused at once. Now I know you are sailing at half-past nine. But unless some matter, of which I am not aware, is not very imminent, you would hardly be in such excitement as you were just now. What you've just told me about Miss Milton only intensifies my certainty."
And now there was a long silence. Fanshawe seemed to be wrestling with himself. "Boynton," he said at length, "I have sworn the most solemn oath which even I, bad as I am, cannot break. I have been considering how much I can tell you. You must not ask me anything more than that."
"I will do my best," Gerald answered.
"I will be brief. A year or so ago," Fanshawe began, "I was coming to the end of my tether. I was on the track of a great discovery, but I was living entirely beyond my means, and I had lost huge sums in speculation on the turf. Up to this time I assure you that though my conduct was wild and headstrong, I was an honest man. At this juncture I was approached by my half-brother, Conway Flint. He was one of the most corrupt scoundrels, I am sorry to say, that ever served the devil in flesh. Flint knew of my experiments."
"In the direction of perfecting papier-mâché?"
"Yes. Of course you must know that. Well, Boynton, I will tell you also that I succeeded -- succeeded beyond the wildest dreams of any of us."
"That also I had deduced."
"Unfortunately, I could not wait to gather the fruits of my work. I had to have money, and in enormous sums, at once. Lord Llandrylas tempted me through Conway Flint, and I fell. For months past I have been making something for Llandrylas. It was that something which was removed section by section from the works to Wales."
"And that something is, Fanshawe?"
"There my lips are sealed," the other answered with a shudder in his voice. "Well, I can tell you this: it is something beyond the dreams of the wildest imagination. It is something which, in the wrong hands, as it is now, confers a terrible power on one regardless of any after-consequences. At dawn tomorrow, if nothing goes wrong, events are going to take place at Castle Ynad which, if not prevented, will make a page of evil history. My work is done. Officially I have no knowledge of what my invention is to be used for. Sachs -- how you know about him beats me -- is in the same position. We are sailing into the unknown tonight, and the world will never hear of us again under our own names. We have been paid huge sums of money. That's all I can tell you, Boynton. I expect it is enough? For God's sake, get Miss Milton out of Castle Ynad tonight!"
"If human power can do it," Gerald answered, and his jaw set and his eyes grew dark and stern. He knew that Fanshawe would tell him no more, and he was certain that the man was speaking the bitter, ghastly truth.
"We must go to the police at once, Mister Boynton," said Winterbotham.
Fanshawe laughed aloud, though there was no mirth in his laughter, and even Gerald smiled faintly.
"That's no use, my friend," Gerald said quietly. "You have heard that it's a question of hours. What policeman would suspect the Earl of Llandrylas, and what magistrate grant a search warrant? And what evidence have we to go upon? Nothing but Mr. Fanshawe's story. It would take us three weeks to move in the matter at all. Remember who the man is we are fighting."
"Then what are we to do?" Winterbotham said hoarsely.
"I'll tell you," Fanshawe answered. "I like you tonight, Boynton, as I've never liked you before, and perhaps what I am doing now may be some little reparation for all that has passed. In the first place, you are quite aware that you will be taking your life in your hands?"
Gerald made an impatient gesture.
"Well, you and Winterbotham must get into the castle alone, and bring Miss Milton away without any other help -- that's as far as I can see it. You must take your own measures. But I can help you to get in."
"Ah!" both the others said in a sharp exclamation.
"Untie my hands and feet and bring me paper and a pencil. I'll draw you a plan of the castle. There is one point where a small postern door in the thickness of the outer wall opens to the moat. I have a key to it in my pocket. The lock is oiled. From this door there are steps down to the water. The moat is about six yards wide at this point, but very deep, though, no doubt, you can swim it."
Eagerly they untied their captor, and in a minute or two he was tracing a plan of the castle in quick, firm strokes. He also gave them a hundred and one pieces of information, which Gerald memorized as well as he could.
"How long does it take to get to the castle from here?" Gerald asked suddenly.
"You cannot do it under three hours," Winterbotham replied.
There was a dead silence. Fanshawe broke it.
"Here again I can help," he said. "I am known as Conway Flint. In a few minutes, with your permission, I will be going to the pier at Pendrylas to embark upon the Mabinogion. My word is supreme at Pendrylas -- or rather the word of the man who I am thought to be. I will give an order to the foreman of the works to run you up the mountainside on the quarry railway. You will be up in twenty minutes, and from there it is less than three miles over the plateau to Castle Ynad."