The Yellow Dove. Gibbs George

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      “Papers?”

      “You’ll laugh when I tell you. Most amusin’—cigarette papers!”

      “Cigarette–”

      “That’s all. I give you my word. Here they are.” And reaching down into his trousers pocket he produced a little yellow packet. “Cigarette papers, that’s all. These chaps must be perishin’ for a smoke. What?” he laughed.

      “But I don’t understand.”

      “It isn’t necessary that you should. Take my word for it, won’t you? It’s what they want. And I’m jolly determined they’re not goin’ to get it.”

      “You want me to help you? How?”

      He looked back again and the lights behind them found a reflection in his eyes. If, earlier in the evening she had hoped to see him fully awake, she had her wish now. He was quite cool and ready to take an amused view of things, but in his coolness she felt a new power, an inventiveness, a readiness to resort to extremes to baffle his pursuers. Her apprehension had grown with the moments. Who were these men in the touring-car? Special agents of Scotland Yard? She had never been so doubtful nor so proud of him. Weighed in the balance of emotion the woman in her decided it. She caught at his hand impulsively.

      “Yes, I’ll help—if I can—whatever comes.”

      He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently.

      “Thank God,” he muttered. “I knew you would.” He looked over his shoulder and then peered out in search of familiar land-marks. They had passed Canons Hill and swung into the main road to Watford. If they reached there safely they would get to Ashwater Park which was but a short distance beyond.

      She heard him speaking again and felt something thrust into the palm of her hand.

      “Take this,” he said. “It’s what they want. They mustn’t get it.”

      “But who are they?”

      “I don’t know. Except that they’ve been sent by Rizzio.”

      “Rizzio!”

      “Yes. He’s not with them. This sort of game requires chaps of a different type.”

      “You mean that they–”

      “Oh, don’t be alarmed. They won’t hurt me and of course they won’t hurt you. I’m going to get you out of the way—with this. My success depends on you. We’ll drive past the Park entrance close to wicket gate in the hedge near the house. Just as we stop, jump out, run through and hide among the shrubbery. Your cloak is dark. They won’t see you. When they’re gone, make your way to the house. It’s a chance, but I’ve got to take it.”

      “And you?” she faltered.

      “I’ll get away. Don’t worry. But the packet. Whatever happens don’t let them get the packet.”

      “No,” she said in a daze, “I won’t.”

      “Keep it for me, until I come. But don’t examine it. It’s quite unimportant to anybody but me–” he laughed, “that is, anybody but Rizzio.”

      She stared straight in front of her trying to think, but thought seemed impossible. The speed had got into her blood and she was mastered by a spirit stronger than her own. He held her in his arms again and she gloried in the thought that she could help him. Whatever his cause, her heart and soul were in it.

      They roared into Watford and, turning sharp to the left, took the road to Croxley Green. The machine hadn’t missed a spark but the touring-car was creeping up—was so close that its lights were blinding them. Hammersley leaned forward and gave a hurried order to Stryker. They passed the Park gates at full speed—the wicket gate was a quarter of a mile beyond. Would they make it? The touring-car was roaring up alongside but Stryker jockeyed it into the gutter. Voices were shouting and Doris got the gleam of something in the hand of a tall figure standing up in the other car. There followed shots—four of them—and an ominous sound came from somewhere underneath as the limousine limped forward.

      “It’s our right rear tire,” said Stryker.

      “Have we a spare wheel,” she heard Cyril say.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “When we stop put it on as quick as you can. A hundred yards. Easy—so and we’re there, Stryker. Now. Over to the left and give ’em the road. Quick! Now stop!”

      The other machine came alongside at their right and the men jumped down just as Cyril threw open the left-hand door and Doris leaped out and went through the gate in the hedge.

      CHAPTER IV

      DANGEROUS SECRETS

      Once within the borders of her father’s estate and hidden in a clump of bushes near the hedge, all idea of flight left Doris’s head. She was home and the familiar scene gave her confidence. From the middle of her clump of bushes grew a spruce tree, and into it she quickly climbed until she reached a point where she could see the figures in the road beside the quivering machines. She had not been followed. The five men were gathered around Cyril, who was protesting violently at the outrage. They had not missed her yet. Stryker was on his knees beside the stricken wheel.

      “Come, now,” she heard the leader saying, “you’re not to be hurt if you’ll give ’em up.”

      “Why, old chap, you’re mad,” Cyril was saying coolly. “I was thinkin’ you wanted my watch. You chase me twenty miles in the dead of night and then ask me for cigarette papers. You’re chaffin’—what?”

      “You’ll find out soon enough,” said the tall man gruffly. “Off with his coat, Jim.... Now search him.”

      Cyril made no resistance. Doris could see his face quite plainly. He was smiling.

      “Rum go, this,” he said with a puzzled air. “I only smoke made cigarettes, you know.”

      But they searched him thoroughly, even taking off his shoes.

      “I say, stop it,” she heard him laugh. “You’re ticklin’.”

      “Shut up, d—n you,” said the tall man, with a scowl.

      “Right-o!” said Cyril, cheerfully. “But you’re wastin’ time.”

      They found that out in a while and the leader of the men straightened. Suddenly he gave a sound of triumph.

      “The girl!” he cried and, rushing to the limousine, threw open the door.

      “Gone!” he shouted excitedly. “She can’t be far. Find her.”

      He rushed around the rear wheels of the limousine and for the first time spied the gate in the hedge.

      “Tricked, by God! In after her, some of you.”

      “It won’t do a bit of good,” remarked Cyril. He was sitting in the dirt of the middle of the road near the front wheels of the machines. “She doesn’t smoke, o’ chap. Bad taste, I call it, gettin’ a lady mixed up in a hunt СКАЧАТЬ